My Billionaire Stepbrother

by Sterling, Jillian

  As soon as I say it I am ashamed, not just because it dishonestly contradicts my own desires but because it’s just mean to Veronique. But I can’t think of anything else to do – I have to get away from her, I have to get to a safe distance.

  Fast.

  I step away, pushing Veronique back to arm’s length, and begin to fish around for my clothes. I can’t look at her. I stand myself.

  The kayak has drifted several yards down the beach before tangling up on some rocks. It gives me an excuse to wade away from Veronique, get my facial expression under control and take a deep breath.

  When I turn around again with the kayak trailing behind me, Veronique hasn’t moved. She’s standing, naked, in the same spot; the tide laps gently against her waist as she watches me with an inscrutable face, preternaturally calm. Her body is so gorgeous. She looks like Aphrodite rising from the sea, sensual and still and somewhat frightening. There’s power in her. I have to look away to keep myself in check.

  “I can’t pretend this never happened,” she says, her voice surprisingly firm.

  Of course not, I think. Neither can I. What human being could?

  But I am not going to let her know that.

  “You’ll have to,” I grunt, more to myself than to her. “Exactly what other option is there? Our parents have caused enough drama without us adding to it.”

  “Don’t you think it’s a little late to worry about that? We’ve done the deed.”

  “Well then you’ll just have to grow up and deal with it.”

  “Deal with it,” she repeats, staring at me like a sphinx. “Are you ok?”

  Her question hits me sideways. I was expecting tears or begging or seduction – the clingy desperate posturing most women do when they sense I’m blowing them off. But this is new. I don’t know what to do with Veronique’s calm, reasonable tone, or those huge eyes that seem to pierce through my attempts at an uncaring façade.

  “What do you mean?” I stall.

  “Are you ok? Because you’re acting…”

  “How am I acting?”

  “Well I was going to say weird, but then I realized that wasn’t true. I’ve seen you do this a lot.”

  “Do what?”

  “Freak out.”

  “I’m not freaking out.”

  “You are freaking out.”

  “I’m not –”

  “At least, I hope you are freaking out, because if you’re not, you’re being cruel. Which is way worse. But if I’m right, you are doing the thing where you purposefully act like an asshole to protect yourself and get what you want. Which is what in this particular case – to pretend we didn’t just make love in the freaking Indian Ocean? To pretend this wasn’t a big deal? To protect your own pride or macho ego, or what?”

  God dammit!

  I knew she was smart, but I’m not used to being transparent to other people. She’s reading me like an open book – an experience that is totally new and disorienting and not entirely unpleasant.

  Who is this girl?!

  How did she get so…tough, so graceful under attack?

  Somehow it’s a relief to be called on my bullshit, but my hackles are raised and I can’t let her win. The only way to defend myself is to lie.

  “It wasn’t a big deal, Veronique. I fuck women all the time. You saw me fuck a bunch of women yesterday. Today I fucked you. I shouldn’t have, but I did. It was a mistake. And it’s over. Now I’m going to go back to my bungalow and probably fuck someone else. See? No big deal. Let it go. Pretend it never happened. I will.”

  The silence that follows this lie is deafening. The tide is moving around us, the sunset sinking into a blaze of fire, but we are both rooted to the spot like statues. I feel myself turning red, unable to meet Veronique’s eyes.

  I’ve never felt more like a jerk. I’ve never felt more out of tune with myself.

  “Wow,” she says, finally. “Wow.”

  I hear her splashing around and look up to see her pulling her wet clothes back onto her body. Her movements are deliberate. She’s not rushing, not collapsing into a weeping hysteria.

  When she is finally dressed, she stops and looks me square in the eyes. My gut clenches and drops like a little boy caught doing something he shouldn’t. I am sure she can see right through me; sure she knows what I am thinking and how guilty I feel.

  “I feel sorry for you, Remington,” she whispers, her voice firm. “I really do. Right now, I am not the one who needs to grow up.”

  Once again, I find myself surprised and confused and completely unable to decide what to do with her. Her soft words are a challenge – not a challenge of conquest, but a challenge of character. Something in me wants to rise to the challenge, become a version of myself that I can respect again. How does she manage to affect me so much in such simple, profound ways? All she did was not lose her temper. All she did was see through my tactics, call a spade a spade.

  And I can’t believe how oddly good it feels, to have someone see me so clearly. To not be in control.

  She shakes her head and turns to go. Stunned, I watch her wade to the shore and walk away. I’ve never seen anyone behave with such poise, and the contrast makes my behavior seem even worse.

  What kind of man has to put a woman down to build himself up?

  I don’t like what I’m seeing in myself. I don’t like what I’ve just done. I don’t like the feeling of loss and loneliness that replaces Veronique’s presence. I don’t like that my attempt to push her away just made me respect her more. I don’t like that everything she does and everything she says convinces me that she is genuine – not the gold-digger con artist I first assumed her to be.

  I don’t like any of this.

  I stare at her retreating figure until it disappears into the trees, then I wade to shore, dragging the kayak onto the beach, and plop myself down on my private deck to think. But thinking is painfully clear and leads me to only one inevitable conclusion: I need to man the fuck up and apologize to Veronique.

  I can’t think of anything else.

  “Oh god,” I groan, rubbing my face in my hands. “This is bad. This is very bad.”

  I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt this out of sorts about a woman – because it’s never happened before.

  Maybe if I go inside, get some work done. I pad across the deck in my bare feet and slide open my glass doors, entering the bungalow. There’s a low fire burning in the sunken fireplace and a spread of fruit and salad waiting for me in the kitchen. My assistant must be here somewhere.

  “Renaud?” I call. “You here?”

  “Oui Monsieur.”

  “Do you have those files I requested?”

  “Oui Monsieur.”

  Renaud shimmers in and hands me one thin manila envelope and one thick one. The thick one has “Jacques LaRoux” written across in sharpie, the other, “Veronique.” I test the weight of Veronique’s envelope and raise my eyebrows.

  “Not much here,” I observe.

  My assistant shrugs. “That is because there wasn’t much to find out. Everything was most straightforward and clean, sir.”

  “Figures,” I grumble. “Of course she’s a fucking angel and I’m a cocksucking douche.”

  “Monsieur?”

  “Just talking to myself, Renaud.”

  I toss Jacques’ envelope on the table for later and indulge in my curiosity about Veronique. I know this seems creepy, but I had ordered these files the moment I found out about my Mom’s wedding. I’m not a stalker; I was just very concerned about my mother’s safety and stuck to my usual business practice of researching the enemy.

  You can only beat your enemy if you understand them.

  Really Remington? You’re actually thinking of Veronique as your enemy? After the stunt you just pulled.

  Cursing myself, I slide the thin envelope open and spill the papers into my hand. The first item is a newspaper clipping describing Veronique’s mother’s death in a car accident years ago: “Local Musician
and Mother Tragically Killed.” The story includes a business headshot of Veronique’s mother, Kimiko Wantanabe; a stunningly beautiful Japanese woman posed with a cello. She bears a strong resemblance to Veronique.

  “God, she died young,” I realize, doing the mental math.

  Veronique can’t have been more than 9 or 10 when her mom was killed, which is not too much younger than I was when my father died. In spite of myself, I feel a tug of empathy and connection to Veronique. Losing a parent as a child is…well. Hard.

  I don’t know why I’m surprised. I mean, I’d heard this story of Jacques’ first wife’s death and his young daughter growing up too fast to try to hold the family together. I guess I just hadn’t fully believed it was true.

  Along with Kimiko’s photo in the paper is another heartbreaking picture, and for a long time I can’t look away from it: in it, Veronique’s father is kneeling on the street weeping, his face contorted in grief, and a very young Veronique stands quietly beside him, her arms around his shoulders as if to comfort him, her face stoic and calm. The picture gives me actual goose bumps. Was she so strong even then?

  Who was there to take care of her?

  I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all.

  I sift through the file, finding more official documents gathered by my assistants to piece together Veronique LaRoux’s true identity. There is a copy of her high school transcript, where she graduated Valedictorian: a copy of her student ID from the Curtis Institute of Music: a copy of her prior term’s academic transcript.

  The Curtis Institute. I’ve heard of it. Prestigious.

  “She’s a cellist,” I notice. “Like her mother.”

  Renaud nods. “And an excellent one, by all accounts.”

  “Straight ‘A’s’. There’s a glowing concert review, last year’s W2 from an Irish pub. Couldn’t you find anything personal on her?”

  “No, sir. There was nothing personal. Mademoiselle LaRoux is a very private person, hardworking. It appears our agents were unable to find any information whatsoever about a social life. It seems she studies and works, and that is all.”

  I really don’t like this. In spite of my best efforts to hate her, Veronique is turning out to be even more appealing, genuine and goddamn amazing than I ever suspected. I feel more and more ashamed of myself with every passing moment.

  “No gambling?”

  “No. She did not seem to inherit that particular family tendency, Monsieur.”

  “Drinking? Drugs? Boyfriends? Girlfriends? Abortions? God dammit, she must have some flaw, some dark secret.”

  “Well, sir, she is only human.”

  I glare at Renaud. “Very funny.”

  I find a printout of an email chain between Veronique and her Dean at the Curtis Institute. She pleads for clemency; he is dismissive and grim. I skim through it then glance up at Renaud.

  “She’s called this wedding an emergency, missed her finals to be here. Will she be able to finish her term? What’s going on?”

  “As far as we could discover, she is in danger of losing her place at school.”

  “Fuck.”

  I sink into a chair, thoroughly convinced that I have been a total asshole from beginning to end. This proves that she’s put herself out to be here, is just as worried about our parents as I am, and had no safety net to protect her against possibly losing everything.

  She’s a class act.

  I misjudged Veronique from the start and then deliberately hurt her based on my own fears and mistaken assumptions. Now I’ve just used her and sent her off by herself on a strange island in the middle of a personal crisis just as confusing as my own.

  I burst to my feet.

  “Monsieur?” Renaud calls after me. “Where are you going?”

  “I owe her an urgent apology,” I shout over my shoulder. “Put all those documents in my desk, Renaud, and lock the drawer. Tell no one of this.”

  Chapter Ten

  “Veronique?”

  I’m outside, walking, looking for her. I’ve just heard a cry from the trees, but I can’t tell which direction it came from. It’s now dusk. The light is fading toward the dark jungle night, which doesn’t make it any easier to find her, and I’m already frustrated at myself for creating this situation in the first place. Why couldn’t I have just kept my dick in my pants?

  Well, let’s be real: it’s because I didn’t want to.

  But why couldn’t I have just kept my big mouth shut afterwards? Why did I have to go and fuck it all up?

  Now here I am chasing this woman around the island, trying to clean up my mess. At least the island is quiet and relaxing, with no one else around on the road. It was even an almost peaceful walk until I heard Veronique’s abrupt cry from somewhere off the path, a truncated wail of pain.

  “Where are you?” I call.

  “Ow!” I hear her yell. “Over here!”

  Squinting, I can see a shape moving along the ground in the ditch that runs parallel to the road, meant to drain rainwater. In the shadows it’s almost impossible to tell at first that it’s a person, but I know it’s Veronique. I crouch down, groping until I find her legs. It’s all I can do not to laugh.

  “What the hell happened?” I ask.

  “What do you think happened?” She snaps, groaning. “I tripped and fell in the dark. I don’t know where the hell I am.”

  Annoyance floods me – not at her, at myself. I should never have been such a jerk, sending her off alone. North Island is very safe, but she is a stranger and doesn’t know her way around. Anywhere can be dangerous in the dark. I reach out to clasp her hand, thinking I’ll lift her out of the ditch and redeem myself by getting her home alive. But things never go as planned.

  “Ow! Let go!”

  Veronique shrinks away from my touch, yelping.

  “What is it?”

  “My wrist,” she groans. “I landed on my wrist.”

  “God. You’re a mess.”

  I reach out, carefully taking her hand. She hisses in pain and I let go, realizing belatedly that something sticky has come off on my fingers. Blood.

  “Veronique, you’re bleeding. Where are you cut?”

  “I don’t know, it’s my wrist I’m worried about.”

  “Can you move it?”

  She tries, and sucks in her breath in pain.

  “Ow! Nope.” She groans, a sound of mingled frustration and pain, but when she talks her voice is soft and controlled. “UGH! God I hope I can still play.”

  “Play?”

  “Cello. I’m supposed to do a skype final this week. It was like pulling teeth to get Curtis to agree to let me do a makeup in the first place, so how can I tell them I can’t do it because I hurt my hand? It’ll sound like, ‘the dog ate my homework.’ They’ll flunk me. And here I thought finding a cello on the island would be the hardest part; of course now I have to go and mess up my goddamn wrist. Perfect! Just what I needed.”

  Right. Curtis Institute of Music. Cello. Missing her finals. Saving her spot at school.

  Fuck.

  As if it wasn’t enough for me to humiliate her earlier, now I’ve gone and contributed to an accident that might impact her entire career. My mind is racing, searching for a way to redeem the situation, but I draw a blank.

  There’s no way around the fact that I am a big giant jerk. Hanging my head in shame, I vow to make it up to Veronique somehow. Maybe money? But no, I reject the idea as soon as I think it. She doesn’t need money now, not with the trust fund my mother has set up. I’ll think of something else. There has to be a way.

  Reaching with my hands, I sit on my haunches and motion to her.

  “Here, give me your arms. I’ll help you up.”

  It takes some shuffling, but I manage to stand her up on her feet. She leans her weight on me, the curve of her hip pressing into the side of my body and sending a thrill of sensation up and down my spine.

  “I rolled my ankle,” she grunts, by way of explanation. “Heard it pop. I’m
sorry, but I have to lean on you.”

  “Ok.”

  So polite. So formal. So almost as if we didn’t just have steamy hot sex in the goddamn ocean.

  Veronique fits perfectly under my arm, her slim shoulders at just the right height to let her arm snake around my back and allow me to put my arm across her shoulders. The touch of her hand on my skin is like kryptonite, but I try to ignore the heat of her closeness and focus on the task at hand.

  “Let’s get you inside,” I say.

  Together we limp back to the even surface of the road, falling silent on the excruciating walk back to Veronique’s villa. Each step jolts our bodies together in a friction that jarringly makes me think of our naked rhythm together earlier. I try to force the thought from my mind, but I can’t. It’s wrong to think of sex when she is in pain. It’s wrong to think of sex at all when I’ve just treated her like shit.

  It’s wrong to think of sex when the lady in question is so very, very off-limits.

  I can feel Veronique sweating with the effort of walking, but she refuses to let herself cry or whimper. Her self-control and pride are astounding, and I feel myself wishing she’d scream or curse or cry or something. Her patience is making me nervous. I’m sure she’d feel better if she cried.

  I’d feel terrible, but I deserve it.

  “You can cry if you want,” I say. “No judgment.”

  She doesn’t make a sound, and I feel even worse.

  Finally we reach her villa. Thank god. I can’t wait to put her body as far away from mine as possible so I can get my thoughts back in control and remember why the hell I came after her in the first place.

  I get the front door open. Darkness has fallen over the island, and I grope blindly on the inside of the villa wall until I find a light-switch. The chandeliers high in the cathedral ceilings flicker to life, and for the first time I have a clear view of what a sorry state Veronique is in.

  She’s a mess. Leaves are sticking out of her hair; her wet clothes are covered in mud. Blood is trickling from a cut on her forehead and a gash on her hand. Her legs are crisscrossed with bruises and scratches, and her ankle is swollen like a black and blue balloon.

  And it’s my fault.