“Whoa! Veronique, calm down! What the hell has gotten into you?!”
“How dare you!” She repeats, her eyes flashing. “Why would you do this to me, Remington? Why would you think this is ok? You treat me like a piece of dirt all week, you seduce me, you discard me, and now you disrespect me by violating my privacy. I didn’t ask for your help with Curtis. Why would you interfere with my schoolwork, with my life? Why?”
Unbelievably, she reaches for the other ice pack.
“Wait, hold on!”
“Why!?”
She hurls it at me, this time getting me in the shoulder.
“Ow, damn it Veronique! What? I thought you’d be glad!”
“Glad? Glad! No I’m not glad! You don’t get to mess with my life, Remington.”
“I’m not!”
“My life is mine; I worked hard for it! I earned it! It’s mine to fuck up on my own – you don’t get to fuck with it. That’s my job. It wasn’t enough for you to hurt me here yesterday, you had to steam-roll me in my professional life too? Wave your dick around and show me just how big a deal you are so I feel even smaller?”
I’m working very, very hard at not losing my temper. I’m trying really, really hard to remember that if I were in her place, I’d probably say something very similar. I’m concentrating very, very carefully on not noticing, once again, how similar we are, how equally fierce and fiery and strong and determined to let nothing and no one derail us from our goals.
Hot damn. There’s nothing like an ambitious, independent woman.
“No Veronique, it wasn’t like that at all! I’m not trying to mess with your life in any way. If anything, I’m just trying to help. You would see that if you just calmed down.”
“I don’t need your help, Remington. I’m not a charity case!”
“I didn’t say that –”
“No, stop. Stop talking. Stop everything. Just stop.”
“Why can’t you accept the fact that I’m trying to make things right?”
She throws her hands in the air, exasperated. The towel slips more and almost falls completely before she catches it and groans in frustration.
“Because, Remington, you’re not trying to make things right: you’re trying to buy me off and smooth things over on your own terms. That’s not how this works! We had sex, and now you’re trying to act like some kind of protective benevolent stepbrother. Why can’t you just fuck me over and ignore me like a normal jerk?”
Yikes. Ok. This hits way too close to home, and I feel my anger flare to life. This time I don’t bother to notice whether I’m angry at Veronique or myself. It doesn’t matter. I’m just angry – angry that my attempts at wrapping things up nicely in a bow have gone so horribly wrong, and angry that Veronique can still, with apparently no effort, see right through me.
“I was doing you a favor,” I growl stubbornly. “A simple thank you would have sufficed.”
“Are you crazy? You want me to thank you? You want me to thank you – for what? Condescending to have sex with me, or condescending to help me? Condescending to apologize to me, or condescending to speak with me at all? What exactly am I supposed to thank you for Remington? You tell me.”
I wince, realizing that she’s right.
That is exactly what I expected her to do – to stroke my ego, to tell me it was ok that I hurt her for my own benefit, to tell me it was ok for me to keep doing whatever I wanted whatever the cost. I expected her to roll over and play dead. I expected to get my way.
And once again, I’m somehow very glad that she’s calling me on my bullshit.
God, I’ve been such an idiot. Even while trying not to be an idiot, I am still an idiot. I had figured out that Veronique was independent, stoic, and private as a person, but I had no idea she was so freaking proud. She sees things so…clearly, with such conviction. I can’t help but admire her.
“I don’t want any favors from you,” Veronique continues. “I don’t want anything from you out of guilt. I don’t want anything from you as a consolation prize. I don’t need your pity. I don’t need your help. If you’re not interested in me as a woman, which you’ve made quite clear you’re not, then what I need is for you to leave me the hell alone.”
We stand there a minute, awkwardly, both of us trying to get our breath and our feelings back in order. I think I know what she means. I think she’s saying she’d want my efforts, my interest, my interference, if it came from a place of desire instead of fear. I think she’s asking me to stop jerking her around with half-truths and tell her what I really think.
I think she’s giving me an opportunity to be a man: to either step up and act on my desire, or step up and respect hers. I stand in the middle for a long minute, asking myself who I am going to be. Will I go on denying my desire, or will I share it with her?
In my tension, I notice odd things: the way her long, dark hair is wet from a shower and sticking to her neck; the way the shade from the jungle makes the green of her eyes deeper, emerald-like; the way she flexes her fingers while she talks, the movement melodically complementing her speech; the way everything she does interests me, attracts me.
Fuck it.
I can’t leave her alone.
I spring at her with a guttural growl, catching her in my arms. My hands find their way under her towel, crushing her body against mine as my lips crash into hers. I’m pouring myself into her, hungrily drinking her in. The heat of her lips, the softness of her skin, the grace of her body – it drives me wild until I’m straining to reach my tongue and explore every crevice of her mouth. Her breath is warm and sweet, and I feel her suddenly relax into me with a moan.
I lift her off the ground and turn until I can pin her against the tree trunk, its strength supporting her back while I press into her front. The kiss deepens, boils, spills over. I can’t take it anymore; I have to have her, I have to touch everything, I have to satisfy my desire for her body, her attention, her pleasure. My hands are all over her, cupping her breasts, squeezing her ass, stroking her thighs. I’m licking her neck, kissing her ear, biting her lips. I’m begging her. I’m actually pleading with her. Please, I’m asking – please take me, baby, take me again, please, I’m sorry, please, I want you. She groans, yes, you’re forgiven; you’re wanted.
I’m unzipping my pants.
I’m hard as iron, hard as wood, hard as rock, desperate to be inside her. I want you so much, she says. I can’t help it, she says.
I can’t either. I can’t help it, and I don’t want to help it. I don’t want anything else, just her. I want her so bad. Desire makes me crazy, makes me speechless until suddenly I’m inside her, until I’m lost and found and fuck! Yes, baby. Oh fuck yeah, that’s it. Right there. Yes. Yes, oh. Oh. Oh! Baby, yes. That’s it. That’s so good. You’re so good, baby. I love it. I love it. Yes.
I’m crushed by her walls, cushioned and welcomed and intoxicated by her wetness. We slide and twist and thrust together, groaning, throbbing. I reach and reach until I’m home, until my brain and my body explode together, until I’m thrashing against Veronique like a maniac, panting her name, shattered and undone by my desire for her, shaken and sated and scared. She kisses me, her smile bright, tears in her eyes.
I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.
I’ve never wanted anything so much.
I’ve never been so scared, so naked.
“Oh god.”
I pull out, pull up my pants, and pull myself together.
“Oh god, Veronique.”
I hold her against my chest, my mind whirling. I can’t pretend I don’t want her now. I can’t even fool myself. The wonder and the ecstasy are great – the only downside is I can’t for the life of me figure out what the hell to do about it, or where to go next. All the things I was thinking and feeling this morning pop back into my mind: the real life problems, the unanswered questions.
“Fuck,” I groan. I kick the tree. I’m kicking myself.
“What?” She groans. “What’s wr
ong now?”
“Veronique!” My hands are in my hair, pulling. I’m exasperated. I’m confused. “Veronique, we can’t. We can’t do this! This is such a weird situation. Our parents are married…our lives are, are, I don’t know, so different…I don’t know what to do.”
“We don’t have to do anything about anything right now, do we?”
I groan. “I’m sorry. I do. I do have to do something. I am going to the capital for business. I have to go. I’ll be in Victoria for a few weeks.”
“Weeks?!”
“Don’t worry. It will be good. For me. Probably for you too. Help us clear our heads.”
“Oh my god Remington, will you cut the shit? Clear our heads? I don’t know if you’re coming or going or what the hell you want.”
“I want this. I want you. I think.”
“Very encouraging.”
“No, listen, we need to think about this. It’s complicated.”
“I don’t see what’s complicated. Either you want me or not: it’s pretty simple.”
“How can you say that? Obviously I want you.”
“Right now. But not ten minutes ago. Maybe not tomorrow.”
“Are you crazy? You made me hard the moment I laid eyes on you. It’s a problem. It’s only a matter of time before everyone on the island knows that I can’t control myself around you. We need to figure out what to do about it, and about the fact that if our parents stay married we’re either going to have to stop this or find a way to keep it a secret or something. But please, keep this between us for now. I’ll…”
I grab her again, kiss her, curse under my breath, and step away.
“I’ll call you.” I say.
Lamest line ever.
And then I’m running to the car, running back to work, running away. From her.
But really, I’m running from myself.
Chapter Twelve
Veronique LaRoux
North Island, The Seychelles
Africa
I’m floating in some fantasy world where everything is bright and easy, where servants in classy uniforms bring me three course meals on the beach and then vanish into the jungle, unheard and barely seen; a fantasy world where I come home at the end of a leisurely day basking in the sun or sailing on the sea to find a fire already lit for me on my private deck, hammocks and mosquito nets swaying in the breeze, wine and roses laid out. I’m surrounded by sandy white beaches, bleached beige sea cliffs and rocks, turquoise ocean water, shaded jungle, tropical animals, gleaming luxury.
For god’s sakes, I’m living on the same island that Prince William and Princess Kate honeymooned. As in: the Royal Family of England Prince and Princess. As in, the British Royals AKA my sort of summer holiday neighbors. I swear to god I saw Princess Kate in a giant sun hat pass me on a sailboat yesterday, and she waved back at me when I shouted hello from my windsurfer board thing.
Who the hell am I?!?!
I ride windsurfer board things!
Princess Kate waves back at me!
When I lay out on a towel to tan on my five-level private deck, the towel is pure linen terrycloth made by Versace.
Versace makes towels, apparently.
When my driver Chip (I have a driver?!?!?!?!) picks me up to take me to the central resort, he never picks me up in anything less than a Cadillac Escalade. Sometimes, he picks me up in a fucking Porsche, Jaguar, or Bentley.
A Bentley.
A Bentley!
Chip picks me up in a Bentley in order to drive me not even a mile down the only road on the island to take me to the palatial resort building where I am waited on hand and foot and fed decadent meals on actual antique China from, like, when China had Emperors. That China.
And then when I’ve been wined and dined and had my fill of fancy foods like fugu (puffer fish – yea, the potentially poisonous fish that costs way too much money and stress to eat) or bird’s nest soup (yes real bird’s nests) or Namibian Bullfrog (rich people eat weird things), Chip drives me back to my private crystal glass castle fortress mansion on my own private cove on the Indian Ocean so that I can pretend I’m a rich hermit with nothing to do; I just drink on the beach, watch the stars dance, listen to the waves crash, and pretend that this is who I am.
No, not pretend: I actually AM a rich hermit with nothing to do. This is real. This is really happening.
This is actually my life right now.
Wow.
Just…wow.
Half the time I walk around outside my villa naked, because I have so much space and privacy that unless I request it, I can go days without seeing anyone. And I have, sometimes. But usually I get lonely after a few hours, so I have lunch or dinner with my Dad and Diana. Shereen is never too far if I want company or help with anything. All that’s missing is my music, my cello, a sense of purpose and creative fulfillment.
And…well, Remington Wilde. If I can count him as a part of my new life.
I really, really hope that I can.
Please, universe?
The peace and atmosphere here in The Seychelles is amazing. Even the air feels different: quieter, sweeter. It’s actual possible to hear my own thoughts, to enjoy my own body, to feel like a person again instead of an ultra-busy worker bee.
I’ve finally read every novel that I’ve been dying to read for two years. I’ve had massages and private yoga lessons every day. My body is tan and relaxed and toned. My mind is, for perhaps the first time I can ever remember, actually free from stress and worry. My wrist and ankle are almost back to normal. I’m almost beginning to believe that I could belong here – me: Veronique LaRoux, poor gambler’s daughter extraordinaire.
For once in my life, everything is working like clockwork. Everything is easy. Everything is a fairy tale; smooth, beautiful, carefree.
Everything except for the gnawing, strange, cloying hunger I still have for Remington. I swear to god that whenever I think about him, which is all the freaking time, my stomach actually flutters and my heart rate literally races.
WTF am I going to do about my lady killing, high life living, fickle, confusing, sexy, steamy, evil, hot, moody, dangerous, billionaire stepbrother?
He’s been away from North Island for three weeks now, working on a nearby island in the Seychelles capital of Victoria. He’s kept his promise and called me…twice. Yes, twice in three weeks.
#Swoon.
Look, I’m not kidding myself here; it’s clear Remington’s either not that into me or really freaking out about his feelings and totally back-peddling. Either way, it’s not looking good for my chances at a real affair with Remington Wilde. Either way, it seems like a red flag.
So now what?
Do we just meet randomly whenever our parents’ relationship throws us together and pretend that everything is cool? Do I try to face the fact that he’s not around, and force myself to stop thinking about him?
Yet each time we’ve talked, he tells me how much he wants me, how he fantasizes about me in the shower, in bed, in conferences. He says his desire for me is crazy, painful, and constant.
Constant? Really?
Then why the days and days of silence? Why the pathetically tiny amount of calls? Why do I get the feeling he’s giving me the old disappearing act, like a rabbit in a magician’s hat? Sexy sex time – now you see it, now you don’t.
I’m getting some very mixed signals, but in spite of everything my obsessive infatuation and crazy desire for him only seem to grow, taking up all my spare thoughts and filling my dreams at night to the point that I can barely sleep because of the heat between my legs and the insatiable hunger only for him.
Where Remington Wilde is concerned, I’m more confused than ever.
“Veronique! There you are!”
That’s Diana’s voice. It’s coming from not far away on my deck.
I pull myself together, try to force Remington from my mind, and open my eyes.
Right now I’m floating in my infinity pool that edges the ocean, my head laid
back against the ledge, my body weightless and cool even in the early afternoon sun. The jungle trees around me sway in a pleasant breeze, the sound of birds cooing and the ocean crashing the background music to another perfect day on the island.
Glancing up, I see Diana and my Dad waving from the porch at the other end of the pool. They’re both wearing swimsuits and hats.
“Hi!” I call, swimming over. “What are you guys up to today?”
Diana’s meta-watt smile hasn’t dimmed since I’ve been here. She and Dad are constantly holding hands and giggling like teenagers, always together, always whispering to each other. It would be annoying if it weren’t so freaking adorable.
“Just another day in paradise,” Diana laughs.
Seriously. Is there such a thing as a bad day in The Seychelles?
“How’s that wrist?” Asks Dad.
“It’s great!” I announce, happily. I hold it up as proof, proudly displaying my brace-free wrist. “I’ve actually able to do some stretches without hurting, so I think it’s safe to play cello again.”
“Oh good!” Diana claps her hands. “I can’t wait to hear you play. Maybe you can give us a private concert soon?”
“Sure!”
“We even found a cello for you,” Dad says. “Special ordered. Arrived yesterday.”
“Awesome.”
“Yes, awesome!” Says Diana. “Maybe tonight? Oh wait! Not tonight! I almost forgot, mon cher, but we sopped by to remind you to get ready for the Governor’s Ball tomorrow.”
“That’s tomorrow?”
“Yes! Time flies, no? Your father and I are taking the boat over to Victoria tonight. You are welcome to come with us, or go on your own in the morning. But you must come to the ball. You will love it! It is such a beautiful event, and you will get to see the capital and the market and the museums and the city. So many cultures come together in Victoria – Indian, Indonesian, African, Creole, British and French Colonial. It’s worth the trip, I promise you. And Remington made me promise to talk you into it. He says the Ball will be extra special this year.”
My Billionaire Stepbrother Page 10