Forbidden: A Stepbrother Secret Baby Romance

by Vesper Vaughn

  Something like disgust fills Jax’s face. He clearly doesn’t like being compared to his father.

  My mother doesn't notice. "Don't work too hard. You two have some fun. There are movies in the den if you want to watch something festive! Oh, and Lyle is gone all day today. Something about the office..." She marches out of the kitchen mid-sentence, waving her hand at both of us.

  "More like the golf course," Jax says under his breath. Then he looks back at me incisively. "Are you waiting to tell your mother that Paul's not coming until tonight when Lyle can be a buffer?"

  I am taken aback at this display of insight. "That's exactly right. She'll find a way to blame me for him not coming, just watch." I stand there awkwardly for a moment. I don’t mean to be this honest.

  Jax wipes his mouth with a napkin and stands up, stepping so close to me I can smell his cologne. “If she says anything, I’ve got your back. Sis.”

  He thanks Richard for breakfast and walks out of the kitchen. I try not to stare at his muscular ass as he walks away. I fail miserably.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  JAX

  I march into the office wing of the house, pulling out the keys in my pocket and unlocking the library door. I've been waiting all morning for Cassie to finally leave so I can sneak in here. I step inside and inhale the scent of books and dust. It's dark in the large room, and I march across the parquet floor toward the long, heavy curtains that fall to the floor. I open them wide and sunlight streams into the room. I cough; the fabric has been holding onto dust. I make a mental note to talk with Susan, the head of staff here, to make sure someone is coming in here regularly to clean. I'm sure they can at least do a cursory dusting when Cassie is gone.

  I open the other two sets of curtains and turn around, satisfied that overall the room looks pretty great. I pull off the canvas covering my favorite leather armchair. The room comes back to life. I sit down in the seat and reach under the chair. There's a wooden drawer that is built into the bottom of it; I pull out another key and unlock the drawer. My sketchbook and charcoal pencils are still in there, stashed exactly where I left them. I sit for a moment, tracing my fingers across the rough fabric cover, enjoying the scratching sound as the fabric catches the callouses on my hands.

  I stare up at the ceiling at the brass chandelier and then close my eyes, trying to calm myself.

  The look on Tessa's face when she'd come back from her little phone call had enraged me. I clench my fists at the memory. I want to fucking punch the shit out of Paul. I'd gleaned enough from Tessa's reaction to know that he wasn’t going to make it out here before I'd even asked her. I have a good feeling I know what he’s doing instead of coming out here. I spend another moment mulling over my options and then reach into my pocket to make a phone call. It's one I've kept myself from making for months.

  It rings twice. "Yeah?" says the voice at the other end of the line.

  "Shawn, it's me. I need you to do the thing, okay?"

  There's barely a moment of pause before he replies. "Consider it done. I'll be back with you before the end of the day."

  I hang up the phone.

  What have I just done?

  I pull headphones out of my pocket and jam them into my ears, scrolling through the music on my iPhone until I find the loudest, angriest playlist on there. I crank it up to full volume, ignoring my phone's warning that I'm going to lose my hearing in five minutes or whatever the fuck it’s saying to me.

  I open my sketchbook and flick through the drawings, finally landing on a clean page. My fingers are flying before I even tell them what to do. Within a few minutes, I realize what I'm drawing.

  Who I'm drawing.

  I keep going, my fingers flying across the paper.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  TESSA

  After the phone call with Paul I find myself wanting to get in the pool. It's ridiculous. I haven't been swimming since I was a teenager. The only problem, of course, is that I didn't pack a swimsuit. I creep out of my bedroom quietly, as if afraid that my mother is still at home. I'm guessing she has an enormous closet full of clothes she's probably never worn. I know that the odds of anything in there fitting me are slim to none. But if I can improvise something...after all, Lyle is gone. My mother isn't home. It's just me and the staff. Jax is holed up somewhere working. Whatever indecency I present won't matter too much.

  I wind my way through corridor after corridor to make it to my mother's room. I've only been in here once, right before the wedding when she traumatized the hair and makeup people she'd hired. After a few minutes, I think that I might be lost, but then I recognize the enormous painting of a French pastoral scene and take a hard left. There are two hand-carved wooden doors in front of me. This is it.

  I knock softly just in case. No one answers. I push the doors open and am standing in the master suite. The staff has already been in to tidy up. The bed looks like the linen has been freshly pressed and applied to the mattress. Lyle must have dozens of people here keeping up with the house.

  I walk into the master bathroom, white marble glinting at me. The tub is so large in here it could function as a small swimming pool. I know my mother well enough to know that she refuses to get into it. She thinks pools and bathtubs are dirty. She will barely dip her toes into the ocean. I walk through the room and find my mother's closet, which is the size of my living room back in Indiana. It looks like a clothing store.

  I run my hands across the racks of soft clothing, much of it still with the tags on it. I'm guessing that Lyle insisted on taking her shopping, even though most of these clothes looked like garments my mother wouldn't ever be caught dead in.

  I wander over to the drawers and run my hands across the brass-framed paper labels. They have images on them. I kneel down and look at each one; there are emblems of underwear, bras, socks, sweaters, and finally, swimsuits. I open the drawer. It's filled to the brim with bikinis. I gape but see that every single one still has the tags attached, the little clear plastic strings poking every which way out of the many-hued fabrics.

  It's like Lyle wanted my mother's new life ready-made: a box of pretty gilding to make her look exactly like he wanted her to look. The swimsuits are neatly folded and arranged by color. There is a bikini in every single shade of the rainbow. I hold up a triangle top and see that it's far too big for my mother's chest.

  Suddenly, I feel a little sick. My mom's lack of wrinkles since the wedding - she'd obviously been indulging in some California-style ‘doctor's’ appointments. But...did Lyle want her to get breast implants? I gag a little at the thought and consider just folding up the bikini and putting it away. Then I remember how inviting the pool looks. It's either this or swimming in my sweatpants.

  I pull out a white bikini, feeling daring. I stand in front of the full-length mirror in the closet and pull the triangle over my chest. It's still not my size but it's close enough. The bottoms are far too small. I look over and see that the label on the drawer to the right has what looks like the outline of a handkerchief. I open the drawer and realize it's filled with sarongs. Perfect. I pull out a white gauzy piece and smile.

  Ten minutes later, I put my clothes back in my room and wander down the stairs. I leave my t-shirt on for now. The bikini top leaves about an inch of side boob sticking out. I don’t want to scare any of the staff on my way to the poolside.

  I realize that it would be nice to have a book to read while I sunbathe a little. I'm not entirely sure where the library is or even if there is a library here, but with my mother and Lyle gone this is as good a time as any to do some unsupervised snooping around the house. It is exactly the kind of thing that I would have wanted to do as a kid. Besides, it might take my mind off of Paul, and I desperately need that.

  I turn down a hallway I've never been down before and start opening doors. The first two rooms are storage for decorations and cleaning supplies. The third and fourth are both studies with huge mahogany desks. The fifth door is what I am looking for. I step ins
ide and feel instantly like Belle in Beauty and the Beast.

  Bookshelves twenty feet high line the walls of this room that holds only books and eight plush armchairs. All but one of the chairs are covered with dust covers. A giant chandelier hangs from the ceiling, the sunlight gleaming off of the crystals. Three wheeled library ladders complete my childhood fantasy. I run my fingers along the spines. There are history books, autobiographies, and classics. I keep walking, waiting to see some well-worn, tattered spines that will indicate an easy-to-read beach thriller or romance. I am halfway around the room when I realize that I can hear what sounds like music blasting out of headphones.

  I whip around and see Jax sprawled across one of the armchairs, a sketchbook on his lap and a pencil of some kind in his hand. "Dammit!" I yell, jumping about a foot. "I didn't know you were in here!"

  Jax pulls the headphones out of his ears and taps his fingers across the surface of his phone. The music stops blaring, and he looks up at me, his eyes travelling at once to my breasts. The white triangle outline of my bikini shows through the sheer, white fabric of my shirt. I cross my arms over my chest but I don’t do it fast enough.

  "Sorry, I was engrossed in what I was doing." He closes the notebook with a snap but not before I see the outline of a woman's body captured on the pages.

  My jaw drops. “Do you draw?”

  He looks like he’s about to blush and shrugs. “Here and there.” He swings his legs off of the arm of the chair and onto the floor. "You looking for something in particular?" He motions around the room. "I can probably help you find anything you’re looking for. I basically lived in this room when I was a kid." A look of sweet nostalgia falls over his face. It lends a softness to his demeanor and features that I haven’t thought was possible.

  "I just wanted something trashy, actually," I say honestly. "But it looks like most of these books are leather-bound and serious."

  Jax laughs and the noise sends a tingle down my legs. "Oh, you might be surprised." He walks to the right side of the room, easily hopping up onto the ladder, climbing the rungs, and using his foot to push off of the edge of the bookshelf. The ladder slides ten feet to the right. Jax stops it in front of a row of books that looks identical to the rest. "What do you want? Romance? Pure erotica? Thriller? Mystery? Horror?"

  I consider for a moment, still taken aback by his sudden attention to me. "Romance." I lean against the armchair. Jax's strong hands run across the book spines. I feel my arms tingle watching him do it, wishing that he were touching me like that.

  "Okay," he says, pulling down a volume that looks indistinguishable from the rest. He skips the last three rungs on the ladder and drops easily down to the floor. He dusts off the cover with his hands, blowing a small plume of dust into the air before handing it to me. "Here you go," he says.

  The leather bound book is heavy in my hands; the feeling of the cover sensuous as I turn it over to examine the spine. Gold embossed letters read A Brief History of Time. I look curiously up at Jax, confusion all over my face. "I'm sorry," I say, smiling at him. "You must have misheard. I was looking for a poolside read, not a book that would blow my head open with facts and knowledge."

  Jax laughs again, his blue eyes blazing, and reaches over, putting his hands on mine and turning the book in the light. "You have to turn the spine this way," he says quietly, his voice just behind my left ear.

  There’s a finely embossed title on the spine; it’s a few shades lighter than the cover and barely distinguishable. The Master and His Lady. I turn the spine away from the light and the title vanishes. "What?" I breathe, confused. My heart is pounding from Jax standing so close to me, his hands on my hands. I turn my head back slightly to see the light glinting off of his tattoos. I feel another urge to reach my fingers out and trace the lines up his arm.

  Jax suddenly pulls away from me and quickly sticks his hands in his pockets. "My mother was a huge fan of genre fiction. It didn't fit the aesthetic my dad was going for in here so he had about three decades’ worth of pulpy novels transcribed into leather-bound books with the titles of more academic books placed on the spines.”

  "This entire room is actually filled with pulp fiction?" I ask, incredulous.

  Jax nods. "Yep. If you name a title of a popular book, I bet you I can find it within sixty seconds. I used to come in here when I was bored in the summertime and pull each title down. I made it a game to match the fake title with the real book inside." He shrugs. "I'm an only child," he says by way of explanation for this quirky hobby.

  I laugh. "Me too," I say. "Books have always been my best friends." I open the book and see that indeed, it is an erotic romance novel filled with sex scenes. "Your dad must have really loved your mother," I whisper. "This must have cost a fortune."

  Jax is silent, and when I turn to look at him there is pain on his face. "I think he loved her. Or maybe he just loved appearances. I don't know." The magic of the moment is broken by this heartbreaking possibility. He clears his throat. "You going swimming?" His eyes once again flick to my chest.

  "Um, probably," I reply, suddenly self-conscious. "Probably going to do a little bit of sunbathing along with some reading." I tap my short fingernails on the spine of the book. I'm remembering the phone call with Paul this morning and my stealth mission into my mother's closet. I'm feeling a little reckless. "You want to join me?"

  "I actually have a ton of work to get through."

  "Ah, okay," I say, trying not to sound disappointed.

  Jax looks down at his feet and then back up at me. "But you know what? No reason I can’t do it poolside. I can even get Richard to make us some nachos or something tacky that your mother would die over if she knew."

  I let out a guffaw. "Don't let her fool you. She used to only cook meals in a microwave. She's made her fair share of nachos over the years. But you really do seem to have her pegged, don't you?"

  Jax smiles. "I can usually read people pretty well," he admits. "Okay, well, I should probably go grab my swim trunks if we're going to be poolside. Along with my laptop." Jax runs his hand across his hair, a crooked smile resting on his face. "After you," he says, motioning toward the door.

  I nod and bite my lip as I walk past him, my body careening closer to his frame than is necessary in the wide space. The goosebumps return as I remember him wrapping his arms around me from behind as he showed me the secret book title. I swallow my impulses.

  I’m still with Paul, however it is he’s being right now, and Jax is still my stepbrother.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  JAX

  I can't believe I was careless enough to forget to lock the fucking door to the library when I walked in there. Did she see what I was drawing?

  I watch Tessa walk away from me toward the pool, her ass wiggling just the right amount. I practically sprint up the stairs to get changed. I'm so distracted that I forget my laptop and have to double back to get it. I make it to the folding wall of glass in the living room and stop dead in my tracks. Tessa is already on the pool deck, her t-shirt off. Jesus. Her silky hair is glinting in the sun as she twists it up off her neck, her raised arms changing the shape of her perfect tits just enough to make my dick wake up again.

  My phone vibrates in my pocket and I'm torn out of my daydream. "What?" I snap into the phone.

  "I’ve got the proof if you want to make the phone call,” says a masculine voice. It’s Shawn, the private investigator I hired to chase after Paul.

  An odd combination of panic and excitement crashes down over me. I turn away from staring at Tessa; she’s trying to wrestle with one of the umbrellas and failing spectacularly. I lower my voice even though the doors are closed and there is no danger of her hearing me. Even after months of waiting for this and thinking what I would do when I got the actual, physical proof in the form of photos, I still feel weird about it. "Already?"

  Shawn lets out a low whistle. "He’s not exactly been discreet. Guy’s a fucking idiot."

  I shove my hand into my poc
ket and turn around to look at Tessa. She’s given up on the umbrella and has her nose buried in the book I chose for her. Her eyebrows are furrowed slightly in concentration and she looks fucking adorable. I put my hands over my eyes as if shielding them will somehow help anything. "Email them to me.”

  As I hang up the phone, I find myself wishing that I didn't know. Because I can't tell Tessa without her blaming me for it.

  Fuck. I slam my hand into the drywall. It cracks a little bit, with a shower of dust falling onto the floor. The noise is louder than I thought it would be. Three staff members come out of nowhere to ask me if everything is okay. I wave them away, not wanting to deal with the looks of sheer panic on their faces. I look at the cracks I made and know that it will be repaired and painted almost by the time I leave the room. Somehow, this pisses me off even more.

  My father and his appearances. Everything has to look perfect for him.

  I weigh my options, the information I now have banging in my head like a drum. I can tell her, but she'll never forgive me. I’ll always be the guy who told her that her boyfriend is a cheating asshole.

  I want her so fucking badly. I can't fuck this up. Suddenly I have an idea. I don’t have to be the bad guy. I can make Paul do the dirty work for me.

  I reach for my phone and text Shawn. “Give me his number and his email address.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  TESSA

  I thought it would take a good, long while for me to relax. But the warm sun beating down on my body and the immediate appearance of two different staff members asking me if I needed anything got me in the mood for pampering. Despite my insistence that I was completely fine, the small teak table next to my pool chair was quickly filled with a spray bottle of water in case I wanted to cool off, an ice bucket filled with three different kinds of soda, two glass bottles of fizzy mineral water, and a glass bottle of still water. By the time the third person asks if I want anything else, I finally acquiesce and ask for a piña colada. This is one of the many reliefs of no longer breastfeeding: being able to freely drink alcohol.