Prince Albert: A Billionaire Stepbrother Romance

by Sabrina Paige

  I can't tear my eyes away from his. I swear I'd forgotten what his eyes looked like. They're this deep chocolate brown, flecked with gold and framed with lashes so thick they would make any woman envious. His lids are hooded, giving him this perpetually seductive look, like he wants nothing more than to lounge around in bed all day.

  He looks deeply into my eyes, and for a second I think we're the only two people in the room. For a moment, this is like a scene in a movie, the kind where the hero scoops up the heroine, bedraggled and soaking wet from the rainstorm, and kisses her in slow motion.

  But my life is definitely not something out of a movie. I'm opening my mouth to respond to Gaige, when I'm cut off by the photographer, who's dressed head to toe in black and waving his camera behind Gaige from across the room. "We have shots we need to get, please," he says, motioning impatiently toward the models.

  Whatever moment was happening between Gaige and I evaporates, so quickly I might have imagined it. "You should finish your shoot," I say.

  Gaige grins. "You look like you'd like a hot bath."

  Why does everything that comes out of his mouth sound like an invitation for more? I put that thought out of my head. Thinking about Gaige – my stepbrother, for goodness' sake – that way is not good. It's not appropriate.

  I look down at my wet clothes. "Yes. I need to clean up."

  One of the blonde models appears by Gaige's side and places her hand on his bicep, jutting out her hip as she poses beside him. I recognize her from something – an ad, maybe – but I can't place it. She's tall and thin, with perky boobs and the kind of flat stomach I didn't think existed in real life. She wrinkles her nose as she looks at me, her expression unbridled disdain. That expression changes when she turns her focus back to Gaige. "Gaige," she says sweetly, "Is this your girlfriend?"

  It's more than just an innocent question. I know that by the way she touches him. She wants him; she's marking her territory.

  Gaige's eyes never leave mine, but with his other hand he pats the hand that rests on his arm. "No, Brooke," he says. "This is just my sister, Delaney."

  Just my sister.

  "Yes," I say, looking at Gaige. "I'm just his stepsister. And I'm just leaving."

  CHAPTER THREE

  GAIGE

  An hour later, and we've finished the photo shoot, this editorial spread for a men's magazine: me surrounded by models in lingerie, the poster child for manwhores everywhere. And no sooner do we wrap up than Brooke turns to me, her voice practically a purr, running her finger along my chest.

  "You know," she whispers, tossing a glance over her shoulder at the staff just out of earshot. The other models are slipping into robes, but Brooke stands there in her lacy bra and panties, completely comfortable. Hell, she should be. Her body is irresistibly hot. "Denise and Jessi are up for a little fun if you are."

  I look beyond her at Denise and Jessi, the other two models with perfectly perky tits and asses. "Maybe next time."

  Brooke pouts, an expression she seems to think is seductive but really makes me find her obnoxious. "If you change your mind," she says, turning to leave. "You should call me."

  Any other time, I'd be all over this kind of offer. No red-blooded male passes up the opportunity to screw three blonde models. At least, Gaige O'Neal sure as hell doesn't. After all, that's my brand: racer, hothead, manwhore. My dick -- or my tool, rather -- can't be satiated. That's the angle a major magazine ran with years ago, and that's what everyone started talking about. Like my cock had a life of its own, pursuing women it just had to fuck. Even then, the idea made me roll my eyes.

  After the magazine article came out, Delaney started calling me Tool, but she said it was because I was a dick, not because of my dick. Of course, Delaney never gave a shit about what anyone else thought of me. She's probably the only person in my life who's ever been that way.

  Any other time, I'd be up for three hot blondes. Any other time except an hour after Delaney Marlowe just waltzed back into my life. Or, rather, came barreling through the door, a whirlwind of disarray, with her sopping wet clothes and hair plastered to her forehead.

  I should be screwing three blondes right now. But instead, I'm thinking about Delaney. Delaney and that glance she gave me when I tucked that strand of dark brown hair behind her ear. Those wide eyes of hers, looking up at me. The way her lower lip fell open just a little bit, and that sharp intake of breath when I touched her. She probably thinks I didn't notice, but I sure as hell did. And it took everything in my power to keep from getting a raging hard-on right then and there in front of everyone.

  Four years ago, I spent the entire summer alternating between arguing with that girl and trying to keep from throwing her over my shoulder and carrying her into my bed like some kind of caveman. She's always been the ultimate in off-limits. I have no doubt that my stepfather – the owner of the team I race for -- would break out his shotgun if he thought I had my sights set on Delaney.

  Besides, Delaney is all business. She made that clear before. She was heading to Columbia with big plans, and nothing was going to get in her way. Especially not someone like me. And, besides, she's the one who didn't show up that night.

  So what the hell is she doing, back here in Dallas? And why the fuck am I suddenly turning down guaranteed sex with models because my stepsister, the girl who used to get under my skin and give me a ration of shit at every turn, shows up on my front door looking like something the cat dragged in?

  * * *

  "Hang on," Delaney yells. When she pulls open the door, she's breathless, her face flushed, hair hanging wet down to her shoulders -- combed and straight now, no longer in damp tangled strands. And...a towel wrapped around her, tucked between her breasts. I tell myself to keep my eyes up, but shit, it's damn near impossible, and she catches me staring. "Oh my God, Gaige, just stop."

  "What?" I ask innocently.

  "You know what," she whispers.

  Okay, so I'm a shithead. The fact that she caught me staring at her tits makes me grin and I can't hide the smile on my face. She notices that too.

  "Why are you laughing?" she asks, indignant. Then she lowers her voice to a whisper again. "I saw you looking at my boobs. Cut it out."

  I step forward, close to her. Damn it. She smells like vanilla or something I can't quite place, the scent of her shampoo lingering in the air. Like cookies. Which immediately makes me think about eating her. And that thought, the thought of being between her legs, renders me suddenly mute. Stop staring and say something, I remind myself.

  "What?" she asks, her voice soft. Silky.

  "You know no one is around," I say. "My mom and your father are gone. No one is going to hear you, so you don't have to whisper. Besides, you're wearing a towel. I can't help but look."

  She rolls her eyes and exhales loudly, stepping back from me. Putting distance between us. "Well, it's nice to see that nothing much has changed since I saw you last."

  "I don't know about that, Delamey," I say, emphasizing my nickname for her, the old one I used after she took to calling me Tool. I like to think it was affectionate, although it would get under her skin like nobody's business. She hated it. I can't help but use it now. Maybe I just want to get a rise out of her. Hell, if she tried to hit me, she might even drop that towel. "You've definitely changed."

  Her eyes fly open wide. "You're so juvenile," she says.

  "You're telling me that no one calls you Delamey anymore?"

  "You're the only one who ever called me by that stupid name," she says. Her hand is still holding the towel between her breasts, as if she's afraid it's going to go flying off her body at any moment. I resist the impulse to slip my finger between the folds of the towel and flick open the fabric. I remind myself that would be wrong. "And if you keep doing it, then I'll start calling you Tool again."

  I grin, but my words come out with an edge. "Aw, sis, it's just like old times."

  Delaney groans. "And definitely don't call me sis," she says. "Why are you he
re, anyway? Are you finished with -- whatever it is you were doing in the guest house?"

  "You make it sound seedy," I say. "It's not like I was shooting porn."

  She gives me a look that could freeze boiling water, one eyebrow raised, and it makes me laugh. I'd forgotten that look. She used to give it to me a lot. "Humph. You could have fooled me."

  "Jealous?" I ask.

  "Of -- what was her name?" Delaney asks. I can tell she's trying to sound casual but she's definitely failing. "Brooke?"

  I smile. "You don't have anything to be jealous of," I say. "Those models have nothing on you." It comes out before I even think about what I'm saying.

  Her lips part for a second, and I think about sliding my hands around to the small of her back, pulling her against me, and bringing my mouth down hard on hers. But I don't. I want to know what she's about to say, and I find myself slightly disappointed when she doesn't respond.

  "So. Are you going to ask me inside, or are you just planning to keep standing there in your doorway in a towel?" I ask. I'm totally pushing my luck. I want to see if she'll actually invite me in her room. The Delaney I knew four years ago never would have said yes. That Delaney was far too concerned with playing by the rules.

  She hesitates, and for a second I think she might actually do it. Then she raises her eyebrows. "Do you really think I'm going to invite you into my room?"

  I shrug. "Can't fault me for trying."

  "Of course I can," she says. "You're my stepbrother. It's obscene."

  "That fact didn't seem to deter you before," I say. "Besides, we're not related. Not even a little bit. Doesn't count."

  "Why did you come up here, Gaige?" she asks, ignoring my attempt to discuss our familial relationship.

  "Can't I welcome you home?" I ask. "Do I have to have any other reason?"

  "You hiked all the way over to the house in that -- what is that thing on your foot, anyway?"

  "It's a boot. I shattered my tibia," I say.

  "Should I ask what you were doing?"

  "What do you think I was doing?"

  The edges of her mouth turn up in a half-smile. "I would say you were pulling some riding stunt, but it's far more likely that you broke yourself in some kind of scandalous sexcapade."

  I reach between my legs to grab my crotch. "Well, it's a damn good thing that what's important survived," I say, wiggling my eyebrows.

  Delaney shakes her head disapprovingly but her eyes twinkle. "Yes, it's definitely a good thing your brain wasn't injured."

  I can't help but laugh. "It's been boring here without you, you know."

  "Gaige, what happened that night --" she starts, but a shrill voice from the other end of the hallway cuts through the air.

  "Delaney!" My mother Anja strides down the hall, wearing wide-legged white pants and a matching white shirt made of flowy material that billows as she walks, the look effortlessly casual but something I know cost thousands of dollars, made by some pretentious designer. Her hair and makeup are styled as if she's just stepped off the set of a television show, and she's wearing sunglasses inside the house. My mother hasn't modeled in ten years, but she treats every step as if she's still walking the runway in Milan.

  "Anja," Delaney says. She reaches out with one arm to hug her, as if she's momentarily forgotten she's only wearing a towel, and then glances at me before grasping her towel tighter. "Sorry, I would -- Gaige knocked on the door and, uh, caught me by surprise."

  "Clearly," Anja says, peering over the edge of her glasses at me. "Nice to see you out of the guest house."

  "Nice to see you without your broom, mother," I say, as she air-kisses both sides of my face as if I'm one of her friends she luncheons with.

  She turns toward Delaney and stage whispers. "He's been even more insufferable since the injury, as I'm sure you can tell."

  "You're more bitter than usual," I retort. "The three martinis at lunch didn't take the edge off?"

  Anja ignores me. "Did we send a driver to pick you up at the airport, Delaney?" she asks. "It was on my list, but I had a luncheon with the --"

  "It was fine," Delaney says.

  "Actually," I start, but Delaney interrupts me.

  "It was totally fine," Delaney says, more emphatically this time. "And now, I'm going to get dressed, if that's okay?"

  "Should I tell your father you'll meet him at the office?" Anja asks.

  "Um. It's pretty late?" Delaney's voice is tentative.

  "Oh, yes," Anja says. "I got carried away at lunch."

  "Obviously," I say with a snort.

  "Gaige, let her get changed for dinner. Stop bothering her." Anja turns without waiting for a response, and flutters back down the hall, a sea of billowing fabric.

  Delaney starts to close the door, but pauses. "Yeah, Gaige," she whispers, sticking her tongue out like a child. "Stop bothering me."

  I'm about to make a lewd comment in response, but she's already shut the door.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  DELANEY

  "I thought I mentioned that Delaney was coming back." My father sips from a glass of scotch, talking to Gaige. It's him and Gaige and I for dinner. Anja had a headache, which is apparently a euphemism for drinking too much. I wonder how often she has headaches.

  "I think I would have remembered that, Beau," Gaige says, glancing at me. He winks, and I can feel a flush spread up my chest all the way to my cheeks. I swear, if my father saw it… But Beau is busy sawing at his steak, blood oozing from the meat and pooling on his plate. I give Gaige a cut-it-out look. Obviously Gaige hasn't matured over the years. I resolve to tell him later to stop the shameless flirtation, but I'm not entirely convinced it wouldn't encourage him even more. In fact, I know it would. Gaige has a rebellious streak a mile wide. Which is why I want to ask him why the hell he's back here, living under my father's roof. Or at least on my father's estate, anyway.

  "Well, good Lord," Beau drawls, gesturing with his steak knife still in his hand. "I guess I've been so wrapped up in the buyout lately that I didn't even think about it." My father talks about his acquisition of a small natural energy company like it's some kind of new thing, but it's hardly news. He has an expansionist mentality and wants Marlowe Oil to be the major player in terms of energy industries world-wide. "Of course, Delaney only just accepted my offer. Finally."

  "You taught me to play hard to get," I say, spooning a forkful of mashed potatoes into my mouth. I wasn't playing hard to get, not really; this is my first job out of college, and my degree is in Asian studies. Against my mother's wishes, I followed my heart, and it's certainly not the most practical degree choice in the world.

  No one was beating down my door to give me a job; and my mother, who's on her fourth marriage to a wealthy importer who spends most of his time overseas, couldn't even fathom why I would want to work instead of spend my days being a socialite in Manhattan. My father taught me to believe in working for a living; it helped that he convinced me to at least add another major to the mix and study business as well.

  "Oh, really? Did he teach you that?" Gaige asks. Then I feel the un-freaking-believable: Gaige's hand on my leg. He gives my thigh a little squeeze, and I almost jump out of my skin. And not just because I'm startled, either – but because his touch does what it did before. It sends warmth running through my body like an electric current. When I look up at him in shock, he's giving me that cocky grin of his. Then he fucking winks. "Playing hard to get is underrated."

  My father doesn't seem to notice what's happening. He cuts off another piece of steak, but pauses as he brings the fork to his mouth. "Which brings me to what I wanted to talk about at dinner. With both of you."

  Gaige squeezes my leg again, and I pick up my steak knife and point it in his direction, shooting him a warning look. He chuckles, but moves his hand away. If he thinks I'm still the girl he used to know, that I'm going to get involved in these kinds of juvenile games, he has another thing coming.

  "What did you want to talk about, dad?" I
ask.

  "I'll get to it in a minute," Beau says. "The photo shoot went well? They got the product placement in there?"

  "Done deal," Gaige says.

  My father nods. "It's a good partnership, Marlow and your team. You're a hot brand. Even after that goddamned accident."

  Gaige rolls his eyes. "Well, it's good to know that at least I haven't ruined the brand," he says, his tone sarcastic.

  The tone is lost on my father. "I've been giving some thought to your work role, Delaney," he says. "And this affects Gaige."

  I swallow hard. When my father sold me on coming to work for him, there was no mention of Gaige being involved in any way. Sure, I'd heard that my father bought Gaige's racing team a year ago, but I didn't think that meant Gaige was living here. Or that he was actually working with my father. I mean, what the hell does the CEO of a company do with a racing team, anyway? I figured it was one of those things my father bought for fun and then handed off to someone else to deal with.

  "I'm all ears," Gaige says. I can feel him looking at me and I pointedly snub him. After he put his hand on my leg, the only appropriate response is to ignore his antics, possibly forever. I reach for my water glass to distract myself from Gaige's gaze.

  "I want you on Gaige," Beau says.

  I choke on my sip of water, coughing loudly. Beside me, I think I hear Gaige chuckle. Screw him if he thinks this is funny.

  "Are you okay?" Beau asks.

  "Water…wrong…pipe," I gasp.

  "I'm sure it's not that she doesn't want to work with me," Gaige says.

  "Don't be ridiculous," Beau says. "Why wouldn't she want to work with you? You're family. She hasn't even heard what I need her for yet."

  Family. I cough a few more times before I speak, hoping my tone conveys the level of irritation that I feel. "Why are you both talking about me like I'm not even here?"