My Billionaire Stepbrother

by Sterling, Jillian

  The automatic glass doors to the terminal part as I burst through, revealing the swirl of people and activity within. There’s what looks like a high school sports team in line to check in; an old couple with a wheelchair and oxygen tank arguing with some TSA agents; a pair of policemen with dogs wandering through the security line.

  For a moment I feel lost. There’s so much going on, I wonder how I will ever make it in time to whatever flight Dad has arranged for me. With a sigh, I take my place in the back of the long line of teenagers checking in, all boys laughing and arguing and roughhousing. There are only maybe three teachers for all thirty of them, yelling periodically at them to “Be quiet!”

  It’s running through my mind that this morning could not possibly be more stressful when it hits me that I don’t even know airline I am supposed to check in with or what destination to ask for. I am probably in the wrong spot. I am probably going to be standing here behind a line of teenage hormones when the plane to my Dad takes off without me.

  “Damn it Dad,” I mutter under my breath. “Would it have killed you to give me a few more details?”

  It probably would have, knowing Jacques LaRoux. He doesn’t exactly speak the language of details. Does any gambler? Does any man?

  God, wouldn’t it be amazing to meet a man that is fluent in reality, one that covers the bases and communicates what you need to know in order to get things done? One that is tall dark and handsome would be nice, too. Tall, dark, handsome, and not so completely self-absorbed that he doesn’t understand that he’s upending your life when he sends you sprinting through the airport headed god-knows-where.

  That’s the dream, I guess: a man who makes life easier for you. But based on my experiences with my loving but absent-minded father, finding a such a man sounds about as likely as finding a god damn unicorn.

  And probably a lot less exciting.

  I am about to give up and leave the line when a firm, confident voice startles me, booming over my shoulder.

  “Mademoiselle LaRoux? Daughter of Mr. Jacques LaRoux?”

  Turning, I see a svelte woman in a crisp uniform smiling at me. Well, at least she’s not a cop; I’ve never seen her uniform before and can’t place it. It looks like a cross between a chauffeur and a Hillary Clinton pantsuit – but flattering. She is holding an iPad.

  “Yes?” I ask, puzzled.

  Her smile broadens, revealing pearly white teeth.

  “So glad I found you! I’m Miss Shereen Butler with Wilde Hospitality Corp. Your plane is waiting. Follow me. James here will take your luggage.”

  “My plane?”

  But she is already walking away towards the TSA security station and I find myself skipping to keep up. Some young kid in a TSA uniform is at my elbow with a professional grin.

  “Can I take your bags ma’am?” he asks.

  This is the first time I think anyone has ever called me ma’am. I eye him, deciding that he can get away with it since he looks about 14.

  “I only have a backpack.”

  “I can carry that for you.”

  “It’s ok.”

  But he has already reached out and taken my bag seamlessly without interrupting my stride. He has some serious skills.

  “Thanks,” I manage.

  Miss Shereen Butler has circumvented the long line at security and motions for me to join her at a small private lane on the side. James, the TSA child jogging at my heel, clears his throat and points toward one of those body-scanners.

  “Miss, if you could step through there please.”

  The scan takes only seconds and then James hands me my backpack. “Have a pleasant flight, Miss LaRoux.”

  “Thanks,” I murmur, puzzled.

  “This way, Mademoiselle.”

  It is not lost on me that I have just bypassed the entire security line. Isn’t that kind of treatment usually reserved for people like Obama or Oprah?

  Miss Butler, poised and elegant, takes me through what looks like an emergency exit, down a little outdoor metal staircase, and to a waiting SUV.

  “Where are we going?” I ask, confused.

  “To your plane, Mademoiselle LaRoux.”

  “You keep saying that. What do you mean, my plane? I don’t have my own plane. Are you confusing me with someone else?”

  Miss Butler laughs as we step together into the back of the SUV. The engines hum and we are rolling down the jetway.

  “Not at all, Mademoiselle LaRoux. A private flight has been arranged for you on one of the family jets.”

  This clears nothing up.

  The terms “private flight” and “family jets” are not remotely close to being a part of my vocabulary. I have no idea what to do with “private flight” in connection to whatever mysterious emergency my father has come up with that is so important that I have toss my life into utter chaos for him. But I swallow my shock, not wanting to seem like a fish out of water, and settle for asking only the most important question.

  “Miss Butler, you said someone arranged a private flight for me. A flight to where, and why?”

  The SUV has come to a stop, and through the dark tinted window I see a sleek, white jet. It’s small but powerful, like the kind of thing you see in pictures of A-list stars waving at the paparazzi from private airports heading to private islands.

  Am I hallucinating, or are the windows gold-rimmed?

  “I’m sorry Mademoiselle LaRoux, that information I can’t say. I was just instructed to escort you from ticketing. Only our pilot knows the destination.”

  “Is my father ok? Am I being sold to a Sheik? What the hell is all of this about?”

  A frown flickers over Shereen’s face. “Of course you are not being sold to a Sheik, Mademoiselle LaRoux. There is no cause for concern. You are the guest of Wilde Hospitality Corp.”

  The panic I felt earlier has given way to complete bewilderment. Realizing Miss Butler can’t or won’t tell me anything else, I bite my tongue and my frustration and follow her like a puppy out of the car. She clicks ahead of me in her perfect Louboutins as my converses scuffle along the pavement, making me feel as out of place as a grunge band at the Four Seasons. Compared to Miss Butler, I look like a homeless woman.

  A lost homeless woman with a bad haircut.

  But Miss Butler doesn’t seem to notice my unease, and we step together up the little boarding ramp to baby’s first private jet.

  A stewardess wearing the same uniform is smiling brightly. As I bump my head and stumble through the hatch, she reaches for my backpack and hands me a glass of champagne. I stare at it dumbly.

  “Welcome aboard, Mademoiselle LaRoux. Can I get you anything specific to eat or drink?”

  “No,” I manage, blinking in shock. “Champagne is…totally appropriate for 10am.”

  The stewardess laughs, a tinkling happy sound that I bet she’s had to practice on the world’s douchiest millionaires.

  “Make yourself comfortable, Mademoiselle. We will be taking off shortly.”

  She beckons me further inside and my jaw literally drops open.

  The inside of the jet is a white and gold palatial suite. There’s an actual bed with what look like satin trimmings. There are two leather couches. There’s a widescreen plasma TV. There is thick white carpet that makes me want to take off my shoes and wiggle my toes. There is a bar and a marble dining room table with leather chairs.

  There’s a goddamn chandelier.

  THERE’S A FAKE FIREPLACE.

  “Uh, who else is coming? Where should I sit?” I ask.

  The stewardess tries hard to mask her amusement.

  “You are our only passenger for this flight, Mademoiselle. Please make yourself comfortable and feel free to use the entire cabin area. We’ll be serving lunch once we are airborne.”

  “Ok,” I squeak. “Thanks.”

  I move gingerly toward a sofa, half afraid it will bite me. The leather is so buttery soft and I let out an involuntary groan and let myself melt into the couch with a deep, exh
austed sigh of surrender. The soft, rich material folds around me like a lover’s embrace.

  God, being rich must feel this good all the damn time.

  My eyes flicker shut as I mechanically bring the glass of champagne to my lips. Yeah, it’s only 10am, but I sure as hell could use a drink already.

  What is my life? What is happening?

  Miss Butler and the stewardess are busily shutting and locking the cabin door. Soon I feel a light touch on my shoulder. I flicker my eyes open and see a ridiculously handsome young man smiling down at me. His eyes are as blue as the Caribbean, his skin dark like Miss Butler’s. The contrast of his eye color is mesmerizing.

  “Mademoiselle LaRoux? I’m Chance Walker, I’ll be your pilot today.”

  I’m too stunned to answer and probably say something stupid like, “Aughh?”

  He smiles. “We are preparing to take off for our anticipated twenty-one hour flight. Conditions look smooth all the way through. Once we reach our cruising altitude it should be an easy straight shot, so relax and enjoy.”

  He speaks with a faint accent that I can’t place.

  “It will be such smooth sailing that I might even be able to take a break from flying and give you a shoulder massage. You look so tense. But twenty-one hours will give you a chance to relax, yes?”

  This is all very confusing – half an hour ago I was convinced my Dad might be dying, now people are handing me champagne and joking around with me on a private jet.

  Seriously. WTF.

  “Twenty-one hours?” I cry, dismayed. “Mr. Walker, can you please tell me where we are going? Everyone is as secretive as the CIA around here and I just really want to know what this is all about. All I know is that my Dad told me he had some emergency and that I had to come, but he neglected to say where. Where, Mr. Walker? Where?”

  He laughs, a deep and charming belly laugh that doesn’t actually relieve my tension. He leans over playfully, eyes full of mischief.

  “Miss LaRoux, I am not supposed to tell you where we are going, but I will give you a hint: it is my home country.”

  I stare at him blankly. Is this some kind of a truth-or-dare game: make the American girl reveal her idiocy or ignorance or latent racism by guessing where her pilot is from?

  The pilot laughs at my blank stare.

  “I will give you another clue: my home country is a beautiful country on a beautiful continent. And the beautiful continent is…Africa.”

  With that he saunters away.

  “Africa?!” I cry.

  The engines flare. The jet lurches forward.

  “Africa?” I repeat.

  Holy fuckballs. I guess I’m going to Africa.

  Chapter Three

  “Mademoiselle LaRoux?”

  A warm scent of tropical fruit washes over me and a gentle hand squeezes my shoulder.

  “Mademoiselle LaRoux, we are making our final descent to North Island.”

  “Hmm?”

  The plane suddenly shakes through an air pocket, the bumps jarring me out of sleep. I sit up like a startled cat in a tangle of satin sheets in the plush memory foam bed, my hair sideways and my brain groggy.

  “Miss LaRoux, we are about to land. The local time is 11am. Have some breakfast!”

  I blink a few times, processing my surroundings. I am in a memory foam bed, wrapped in satin sheets, on a private jet. It takes a few minutes for me to remember that, and I repeat it to myself a few times to make the reality sink in.

  “North Island?” I repeat, blankly, staring up at the pretty stewardess.

  “Yes, North Island of the Seychelles.”

  She smiles and places a silver breakfast tray over my lap, spread with diced papaya, steaming scrambled eggs, piping hot coffee, and a crystal glass filled with sparkling water. The dishes are all fine china. The napkin is silky pressed linen. The food all smells incredible.

  Wow.

  “The Seychelles?” I whisper, connecting the name to meaning in my brain. “You mean where Prince William and Princess Kate had their honeymoon?”

  How do I even know that? I don’t read tabloids. But I guess everybody, including a boring dead-serious, stick-in-the-mud student like me knows at least something about the world’s most romantic, glamorous couple. Not that I’ve at all fantasized about having their life or anything – the clothes and the titles and the castles and the traveling…nope, doesn’t affect me or make me sigh with secret longing.

  Nope, not at all.

  “That’s right, it’s the same island,” the stewardess says with a wink. “The royal couple stayed at the very same Wilde Hospitality Corp resort where you are going. Oops!”

  Her eyes widen guiltily, her hand flying to cover her mouth.

  “I’m terribly sorry! I wasn’t supposed to spoil the surprise.”

  But she leans in conspiratorially, her voice dropping to a whisper.

  “I think I overheard Mademoiselle Butler say that you’ll be staying in the very same bungalow where the Prince and Princess honeymooned. You’re to receive the VIP treatment, just like royalty! It’s supposed to be the most beautiful spot on North Island: it faces the sunset with a private beach, a private forest, glass walls on every side so you can see the jungle, and the most gorgeous amenities. There’s an original Matisse in every room. You’ll even have your own clear Jacuzzi submerged at sea level on a terrace that’s built out into the water, so you can see the fish swimming underneath you. I love the water here – at this latitude the Indian Ocean is so clean and warm, better than the Caribbean. It’s like taking a relaxing bath every time you dip in. You’ll have a marvelous time, I am sure. Enjoy your breakfast.”

  My mouth has literally fallen open.

  “Thank you,” is all I can manage as she walks away, leaving me in bed in a private jet with breakfast on a silver tray on my way to the royal family’s honeymoon bungalow with my original Matisse in every room.

  What even is my life right now?

  Yesterday I ate a meal off the dollar menu at McDonalds because all I could find in my couch was a handful of quarters.

  Are they sure they picked up the right girl at the airport?

  How the heck does my drifter Dad factor in with all of this?

  At least now the butterflies in my stomach are less about fearing for my Dad’s safety and more about fearing for my own sanity. What if I am imagining all of this? It doesn’t seem possible that all of this is real, that all of this is happening to me.

  Though actually, I don’t even know what is happening. Maybe it is secretly terrible. Maybe the rug will be pulled out from under me at any second, the exotic royal fantasy punctured.

  I am too nervous to eat, so I put the breakfast tray to the side and roll over to stare out the window.

  The plane is circling an island, which juts out of the sea like an emerald mountain rimmed with topaz shores. White-hot sand blends from the beach into the water, blurring the lines between land and sea. The aquamarine water around the shore is almost violently bright, glowing and cheerful until it drops into a deep mysterious sapphire color that looks exactly like the night sky.

  I’ve never been anywhere tropical before, and I can’t believe how it lives up exactly to my wildest imagination. There are sailboats dotting the shores around the North Island, and I can see smaller and larger islands dotting the horizon almost every direction I look.

  It’s breathtakingly beautiful. It’s every tropical fantasy I have ever had, and more.

  And I’m about to land in a tropical island paradise, with nothing to wear but a sweater and jeans.

  Would have been nice to have a heads-up Dad, I think ruefully. But I know nothing he could have said would have prepared me for the royal family’s honeymoon island.

  “Ah!”

  We hit another air pocket that jolts the plane and sends seltzer water and eggs splashing all over the silky sheets. I yelp and grab around for stability, but my hands find nothing to hold onto except a feather pillow that I proceed to squeeze to
death. And so there I am, clutching a pillow like a scared kid with eggs and feathers in my hair and mascara all over my face when our landing gear touches down on a thin private runway in the center of the island.

  I couldn’t feel more out of place or out of sorts if I tried, and I haven’t even stepped foot on the ground.

  The jet rolls to a stop, and over the sounds of the engines powering down I can hear the pilot and women talking in the cockpit, laughing and unbuckling seatbelts. While the stewardess moves to unlatch the cabin door to the outside world, Miss Butler emerges and beams at me with a truly hospitable, empathetic smile.

  “Welcome to the beautiful Seychelles, Mademoiselle LaRoux,” says Miss Butler. “Don’t worry, I am here to be your guide and make sure you are comfortable all the way. You are going to have an amazing time on our island. The beaches, the food, the music…” her voice drops secretively: “The men! Whatever you do here, it is better and more fun than when you do it anywhere else.”

  She winks, her laughter breaking my tension.

  Now I realize her light lilting accent must be from here, that the pride in her voice is that of ownership and belonging. This is her home. And she’s here to be my guide! I won’t be alone, forging into the unknown like an uncouth pauper disguised in the prince’s clothes.

  Somehow Miss Butler’s ease and joy rub off on me a little, and I find my shoulders relaxing slightly as I take a deep breath.

  “Miss Butler,” I say, “I can’t tell you how glad I am to know you’ll be my guide. But now that we’re here, can you please tell me what in god’s name is happening? Why am I here?”

  Her eyes sparkle. “All in good time. I can’t spoil the surprise. Come, the car will be waiting, and we have some work to do.”

  Obediently I let go of my death-clutch on the pillow, shake the eggs out of my hair, and rise shakily to my feet. A dark Cadillac Escalade – what else – is waiting for us as we deplane. Somehow, my backpack is already loaded for me into the backseat.