Remington, you’re a maggot. You let this happen to her.
“Jesus,” I say. “You look like shit.”
Veronique’s face flickers, and for a moment I think she might finally lash out or let herself go. There’s just a glimpse of vulnerability, wounded feelings, fragility, mental anguish, and it stabs me with fresh guilt. I didn’t mean for my words to hurt her on top of everything else, but I can see that they did. But I’m not sure how to address it, because as soon as the flash of feeling passes over her features, it’s gone. And I’m wondering if I really saw anything at all.
She is a master stoic. It makes me even angrier at myself.
“Thanks,” she says wryly. “You sure know how to compliment a girl.”
Yeah, asshole. Jesus. Get it together, Wilde.
Clearly I should just stop talking.
“Just trying to lighten the mood,” I grunt.
We limp over to her couch and I set her down as gently as possible, but I regret to say there are still some huffs and puffs of pain from Veronique. I’m not a great nurse. She moans a little as I lift her leg up onto a pillow. That’s what people do, right? Put pillows under swollen ankles? Maybe I should fluff it?
I’m trying to do just that when she reaches out with her good hand, closes her long fingers around my wrist, and stops me. Even without looking I can feel her jade green eyes on me. It raises the little hairs on the back of my neck, a hyper-awareness that is born out of either lust or longing or guilt, hard to say which.
“Listen, Remington, leave it alone. Thanks for getting me home and everything, but I can take it from here, really. I’m sure you have more important things to do this evening. Other women, maybe.”
God.
I can’t help but chalk up a few mental points to her for the barb, but I’m unsure how to respond. Of course she doesn’t want me around. Why would she? I’ve been a perfect prat from beginning to end. And in spite of all her poise and self-control, I’d bet you a million dollars she’s just waiting to be alone so she can break down and cry.
“Let me ring the doctor first.”
I don’t wait for a reply. I walk over to the kitchen phone, which connects directly to the resort’s front desk, and in seconds arrange for the medic to come. Hanging up, I turn and see Veronique is lying back on the couch, her eyes closed, her breathing calm. She looks like a freaking angel. I close my eyes too, feeling like the biggest idiot in the world. I can’t think of a single thing to say. I open my mouth, stutter, and fall silent.
Without opening her eyes, Veronique sighs. I know I’ve failed at resolving anything. I know I’ve failed to do anything right.
“Go,” she says. “Please.”
I hesitate, hovering. In spite of myself, I find it really fucking hard to leave her. Finally she twists her neck around and blinks her eyes open, staring at me with the same preternatural calm that she had when I was being a jerk in the ocean.
“Thank you, Remington,” she repeats. “You got me home, you called the doctor. Now, please, I need you to go.”
It’s probably the first time I’ve ever been dismissed. Nope, can’t think of another. Somehow, it makes me want to stay even more. But that would be counterproductive. She’s exhausted. I’m confused. No good can come of this. An odd, choking feeling of helplessness comes over me. My face is hot with embarrassment and shame over my behavior, but my body just does not want to leave Veronique. The conflict is heavy.
Part of me wants to clean her up myself, wrap her with bandages, pamper her; but part of me is too angry to stay. I’m angry with myself, not Veronique, but I know I am too mad to be able to express anything but anger. If I open my mouth again, I know I’ll just say something rash and dumb and mean.
And she doesn’t deserve that. I’m my problem: not her.
She’s still watching me, her request for my departure hanging in the air like a raincloud.
“Remington?”
Her voice chills me back to reason. Without another word I cross the room and shoot out the door into the night. I linger on the porch, out of Veronique’s view, and wait until the doctor shows up. Just to be sure. Once I know Veronique will be taken care of, I take off into the night, walking aimlessly down the road in the wrong direction. My villa is behind me, but I feel like I could use a brisk power walk around the island. It’s not large, and I know it like the back of my hand. I’ve definitely got some energy to work out. Just me, myself, and the night.
And thoughts of Veronique.
My mobile is suddenly in my hand, and I find myself dialing. There’s a ring and then my assistant’s voice greets me promptly.
“Renaud? Get me the number for the President of the Curtis Institute of Music. Philadelphia. United States. Now. I need to get in touch with him personally. Then I want you to track down whoever is organizing the music for the Governor’s Ball in Victoria and inform them that their cellist has been replaced. We are hiring Miss Veronique LaRoux. Do it now.”
It’s not enough to atone. But it’s a start.
I drop my phone back to my pocket and stop, mid-stride, feeling sick to my stomach at a sudden realization; in my haste and my anger, I left without doing the one thing I set out to do in the first place. And it’s too late now, too dark, not the right time. But I’ll have to fix this. I’ll have to fix it tomorrow.
Because I never even apologized to Veronique.
Chapter Eleven
The next morning I am feeling more like myself. I think I have it all figured out now. I think I know how to clear everything up.
A good night’s sleep always helps me put things in perspective, and now I feel more comfortable with my own behavior yesterday. At the time I was so confused about why I felt like Veronique was having such an effect on me, why I wanted her so much, why I was feeling so overwhelmed by her. But now I realize it must be simply that I have a lot going on; I am under a lot of stress with business and with worrying about my mother. It’s only natural – though not excusable – that I would lose my cool and vent. And take out my stress in any way possible.
It’s only human that I would make a poor decision under the weight of all that’s happened this week, turning to sex or losing my temper at inappropriate times, in order to try to relieve some of the strain. Not that I’m proud of myself. Well, maybe I am a little proud – how many men successfully seduce their stepsisters?
Or did she seduce me?
I actually have no idea. It happened so fast, and yet took so agonizingly long. I’ve thought about little else all week, and now that I’ve had her, I still don’t know what’s going on. Anyway. It doesn’t matter. I’m choosing to get over it. It’s unfortunate that I hurt Veronique. I’ll apologize. I’ll make a gesture. But there’s no reason for there to be any more drama.
I’m ready to wrap the whole Veronique thing up in a bow and put it behind me.
Wouldn’t you rather wrap Veronique up in a bow and take her from behind?
No. No, no, no. Stop it stop it!
I’m over it. Really, I am.
I woke up today early and went for a run. I had a protein-rich breakfast and dictated some important emails to Renaud. I held conference calls with the Governor of the Seychelles and the Gala Committee Chair; I spoke with the President of Curtis Institute of Music; I closed a deal with the President of Unilever and my company’s CEO; I rescheduled lunch with the British Ambassador.
See? Over it.
I checked all the most pressing things off my to-do list, that is, all save one: apologize to Veronique. That’s the only thing left to do before I hop on the boat to the capital, where I’ll be working for the next few weeks. I have to deal with Veronique. I don’t like leaving loose ends behind me.
But part of me is worried that if I tug at this string, I’ll unravel.
Now I find myself stalling, staring at my reflection in the mirror, applying more after-shave than necessary and obsessing over which facial expression will make me seem most sincere and also most imperson
al. I want her to believe me that I’m sorry, and I also want her to believe me that I don’t want anything more to happen between us.
I want me to believe it, too. But I have doubts.
Finally, I can’t avoid it any longer. Renaud drives me over to Veronique’s villa and waits in the car, keeping the engine running while I stride toward her door; I won’t stay long. I’ve told myself I can’t stay long. I refuse to stay long.
I’m about to just walk in the villa, but then I realize that that’s probably rude, so I make myself stop and knock. Almost instantaneously a Seychellese Creole woman in a uniform suit answers the door. It’s clear she’s one of our employees but I can’t remember meeting her before. I see her see me struggle and fail to connect her face with a name. So much for charm.
“Good morning, Mr. Wilde,” she says. “How can I help you?”
Her tone is a bit chilly, and though she’s perfectly professional her face is stony. It saps some of my bravado. Now I feel like a schoolboy talking to the disapproving parents of a playmate.
“Uh…good morning. Is Veronique here?”
“Yes.”
She stares back at me, unmoving. She’s really not making this easy.
“Can I…come in?”
“Wait, please.”
She shuts the door in my face.
Wow.
Who does she think she is? She works for me. I own this island. I own this villa. I even own her uniform.
I’m just about to barrel in and remind her of all that when I remember why I am here in the first place: to apologize. I should probably be patient and humble. Barging in uninvited would cancel out any potential good karma.
So I take a deep breath and force myself to smile.
The door finally reopens. The woman gives me another icy look but says nothing, stepping out of the way so that I can come in.
“Thank you,” I say.
One point for charm.
The villa is peaceful, soft classical orchestra music playing somewhere in the background. Morning light is tumbling in from every angle, the sheer glass walls rising on all sides like crystal reflecting the brilliant colors of the green jungle and azure sea. The doors and windows are thrown open so that I can feel the sea breeze and see the sheer white curtains fluttering in the fresh air like dancers. It smells like salt and sun and sand.
Taking a deep breath, I notice afresh just how gorgeous the island and resort are. Even growing up here in the Seychelles, surrounded by tropical beauty, it just never gets old. The view of the white sand beach and the private deck stretching from Veronique’s patio makes me smile with pride and appreciation. Truly, this is a restful and luxurious place in the sun, a paradise on earth.
But where is its occupant?
The spacious, open kitchen and living room are empty. I glance around and notice that something is swinging just out of sight on the patio. Passing through the open living room doors, I find myself on the expansive veranda overlooking the Indian Ocean, the horizon stretching like a bright sapphire in every direction. The outdoor infinity pool is to my left and a gently swinging hammock is suspended from a coconut tree on my right.
In the hammock is Veronique, curled up in a ball holding a big ice pack over her wrist, and another balanced on her ankle.
“Veronique,” I say. “Good morning.”
She still looks scratched and bruised, but in the morning light her complexion is glowing like a topaz and she’s so stunningly beautiful it makes my chest hurt. If anything, the worry around her eyes and the cast around her wrist only make her beauty more heart wrenching. She looks impossibly young and vulnerable, the kind of girl you’d want to protect and spoil and help.
No, Remington. No. Get a grip.
I realize that an absurd amount of time has passed with neither of us speaking, but Veronique only watches me, waiting. God dammit, how the hell is she always so fucking calm? Clearly she doesn’t plan on making this easy, either.
Well, we Wildes never shy from a challenge. Not in business. Not in romance. Not in anything.
I square my shoulders and clear my throat. “How’s the wrist?” I ask.
Wordlessly, Veronique moves the ice pack and holds up her arm, revealing a serious-looking brace. At least it’s not in a cast. That’s a good sign.
“So, a sprain?” I ask.
She nods.
“Well, that’s good. Better than being broken. Heals in, what, a few weeks?”
She squints at me, shielding her eyes with her good hand and coming right to the point.
“What do you want, Remington?”
What do you want?
That’s not the question I came here to answer.
What do I want?
I want to pounce on her right now, rip off that towel she’s wearing, and ravage her by the pool.
I want to make her moan and wail in pleasure like she did yesterday, before I made a complete idiot out of myself.
I want to get to the bottom of what it is about her that reduces me to a desperate sex maniac in her presence, the charisma that pulls me towards her and destroys my self-control.
I want to forget about all the reasons it’s a bad idea to be with her.
I want power over my thoughts and desires again, like I thought I had up until I saw her again just now.
I want to go back to last week before our parents married each other and plunged my emotional life into chaos.
I want to fuck my stepsister constantly, and I also want to not have a stepsister.
I want to have my cake and eat it to.
That’s what I want. But I am not prepared to say that to her.
“I came to apologize.”
Even to me the words sound wooden, stiff. But Veronique raises her eyebrows, looking almost hopeful.
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry, Veronique. I was mean yesterday, and I should never have let you walk alone in the dark.”
There’s an awkward pause and Veronique frowns, disappointed.
“Is that all?”
“No,” I say, too swiftly. “Just…that…I’m sorry I hurt your feelings.”
Oof. Even that sounds like a cop-out. Hurting her feelings? It’s not like I called her a name or ate her sandwich. I fucked her and mocked her. It’s too much for a simple apology. The only way I can find to deal with it is to make light of it.
“I’m sorry I hurt your feelings. And your hand. And your foot.”
I think I see a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
“And any and all other body parts. I didn’t mean to hurt any of those.”
Her eyes widen, and I realize I’ve taken my attempt at teasing too far. I was supposed to avoid any thoughts and talk of sex, but now we are both looking awkwardly at the ground. Suddenly my polo shirt and pressed linen pants feel too hot and tight. I take a step toward Veronique’s hammock, then awkwardly stop midway, shuffling on my feet like a gawky teen.
Jesus. What am I doing?
“Look,” I say, “I really am sorry. I shouldn’t have lost control like that with you, in the canoe or after. It was wrong of me. Given our situation. I should have been more careful.”
It’s a weak apology. I know it. She knows it. And my determination to stick with it is waning. But I give my rehearsed speech its rehearsed conclusion.
“We’ll probably have to see more of each other though, so, can we just put it behind us?”
Veronique only shakes her head in disbelief and stares out to the sea. Her silence is unnerving me, convicting me. All my plans to be brief and concise are eroding under my urge to make her laugh, to make her smile, to make her like me again. I want a reaction. I want a sign. I want forgiveness, or a kiss, or a fuck. Fuck.
I want too many things from her.
I need to get out of here, or I’m done for.
“Oh!” I clap my hands, making Veronique jump. “I almost forgot. I want to make it up to you. I have a surprise.”
“No, Remington –”
“Shh, shh, it’s too late, I’ve already done it. Listen, think of it as a peace offering. I’ve been a heel, and I want to make amends. So I called the President of Curtis Institute, explained your situation, verified your family emergency and your need to stay here for a while to recuperate.”
Veronique’s hammock stops swinging. She goes as still as a statue, her face registering shock.
“You called the president of my school?”
“Yes, it was no trouble. The Wilde Hospitality Corporation has a vested interest in supporting the arts, so he was more than happy to make time to speak with me about my concerns.”
“Your concerns?”
“Yes, my concerns about you. About your finals, your twisted wrist, your spot in class. He was not aware of our new family connection, but I made him aware. The good news is that he has agreed to give you an opportunity to complete your course via independent study over the summer, once your wrist heals; just record your final performance here and send it in. We have a recording studio at the central resort you can use. You will not lose your place in your class, and you can spend the summer here. It’s a win-win situation. So, congratulations! You can rest easy about Curtis. Your future plans need not be changed.”
My smile fades as I realize the impact my speech has had on Veronique. She is leaning forward in the hammock, her body tense as if she’s straining against gravity. She’s definitely straining against something, some emotion. Her face is pale and her hands are trembling. For a minute I wonder if she’s getting sick, or if she is about to cry from relief, but then I realize…no.
“How dare you,” she hisses.
She jumps to her feet as quickly as her injuries allow, holding onto the trunk of the coconut tree for support. Her towel slips a little, giving me a tantalizing view of her cleavage. That and the animal anger on her face are making it very hard for me to think about anything but grabbing her and having my way with her up against the tree. But…something tells me she would not be very enthused about that at the moment.
She is pissed.
“How dare I what?”
Why is she pissed? I’m so confused. I thought she’d be happy but she’s clearly not. She picks up one of her ice packs from the hammock, rears, and throws it at my head. I barely manage to duck in time to avoid losing an ear.
My Billionaire Stepbrother Page 9