My Billionaire Stepbrother (Lexi's Sexy Billionaire Romance #1) (14 page)

“Do you like it when they gush really high, like a geyser?” he asked, his voice taunting. “Or does that just make you afraid it’ll end up on your face?”

“Gross.” I brushed sand off my pants, unwittingly finding myself picturing what he was trying to paint. I didn’t like that I wasn’t grossed out.
 

Parker stood behind me. I stepped into the sun and felt instantly baked, remembering why we’d gone under the pier in the first place. Parker came into the heat behind me then looked up, shielding his eyes with his arm.
 

“Hell. It’s hot.”
 

I fanned myself, not trusting myself to speak.
 

“Give me the bag.” He pointed at the duffel.
 

“Why?”
 

“I want to put on my suit.”
 

I resumed walking. “That’s not a bad idea.”
 

“Hey, wait. Gimme.”
 

I pointed. “The changing rooms are down there.”
 

He looked back at the scattering of posts and pylons then shrugged.
 

“What? Right here?”
 

“Why not? There’s nobody around.” He unzipped the bag, pulled out a pair of surfer shorts, and walked back in. Within a few seconds, he’d vanished behind a cluster.
 

I saw a flap of fabric, pinpointed his location, and realized that right there, Parker was stripping down to nothing.
 

Then I realized that he’d come back and see me still fully dressed, in my long jeans with my long-sleeved shirt rolled up to the elbows. Sweating my ass off. Then I’d lead us all the way to the changing rooms across the beach, where he’d wait patiently while his prude-ass sister — one who everyone apparently thought of as an ice queen — changed out of her six petticoats and bloomers into what would surely be a full-body 1920s swimsuit.
 

I looked around.
 

Fuck it.
I could be crazy too, if “crazy” meant changing in privacy behind pylons on a deserted section of beach where no one could see me.
 

I moved away from the water until I felt sufficiently hidden. Feeling dangerous (and — admittedly — kind of excited), I slipped off my jeans. Without wasting time, heart thumping, I slipped off my panties then pawed frantically in the duffel for my swimsuit bottoms, sure that at any moment someone would come up behind my bare ass. I felt better once they were on: not just cooler, but less like an ice queen.
 

I paused to stuff my jeans and panties into the duffel, then doffed my shirt. I wriggled behind my back, grabbed the clasp of my bra, then slipped that off, too. The breeze, despite its warmth, felt cool on my bare breasts as it swept away my brush of perspiration and made my nipples stand tall and hard.
 

I had a moment to wonder if I was being turned on by the exposure then reached into the duffel for my top.
 

I rummaged.

Then I rummaged some more.
 

It wasn’t in there. I couldn’t find it. I was under a pier on a public beach with my tits out, and had nothing to cover them. I was going to have to wear my shirt after all — and because the shirt was slightly sheer and the sun was strong, I’d probably have to wear my goddamned bra, too.
 

I turned back to my pile of clothes and saw Parker standing in front of me, dressed in his board shorts. He’d just come around the pylon, apparently having no idea where I’d gone. He was holding my swimsuit top, which he must have grabbed by mistake.
 

He was looking right at me.
Right at me.
 

I wanted to cover up. I should have turned away, or at least crossed my arms over my chest. But for some reason, I was frozen. I was only wearing bottoms, with everything from my flat belly to my wind-tousled dark-brown hair bare for him to see.
 

“Your suit,” he mumbled, raising the top in his hand.
 

I still hadn’t moved. He’d given me two seconds of courtesy, but he’d moved his eyes down since and was staring directly at my bare breasts. They were Bs — a bit smaller than I wanted, but cute enough, I thought, in the mirror.
 

I found I enjoyed the feel of his eyes on them.
 

Damn me and my shame; I didn’t
want
him to stop taking me in. And worse: in those few seconds, I very much wanted him to reach out and touch me. A twisted timeline spooled across my vision, and in a blink I saw us in the sand, his hands everywhere, me not as frigid as he thought but instead quite willing, quite ready, quite —
 

“I’m sorry.” He shoved the top into my hand, finally turning away.
 

Shame descended. I took the top and pulled it on.
 

We picked up our gear. Parker left the pier’s shade first. I followed at a distance of a dozen steps, my skin hotter than the sun might suggest.

It wasn’t just Parker’s embarrassing attention that bothered me so much. It was also what I’d seen in his eyes. The horrid realization that in those few seconds, he’d wanted me — and I’d wanted him right back.
 

We walked on in silence, a hot mix of emotions churning inside me. Shocked, disbelieving, aroused. I wanted to hide my face and run.

Parker led the way, his mouth set, his hands hiding a protrusion in his shorts.

It was a half hour before I found the strength to speak again.

PARKER

I’
VE
NEVER
LANDED
THE
CHOPPER
in Santa Monica, so it takes some time for the pilot to work out the details of our visit — but he does, because that’s what he’s paid so well for. He not only handles all the airport stuff to get us clearance or whatever; he also arranges to have a car meet us and makes a reservation at Mélisse on Wilshire. I know the maître d’ and slip him a hundred to get us the best table in the house. I imagine I’ve just bumped someone out of their well-planned evening, but the old, rude version of Parker Altman rises inside me, and I find that I don’t care at all.
 

We order grated white truffles, parmesan, brown butter truffle froth, and twenty-one-day-aged Liberty Duck with Swiss chard, forbidden rice, and red onion pomegranate condiment. Angela doesn’t seem to know what to think of it all, but she’s desperately underdressed anyway, especially considering that I’m still in my tux.
 

After dinner, we head to the pier. It’s lit in every color, turning night into day. I wonder if she’ll want to ride some of the rides, but instead she heads to the end and sits on a bench, staring out across the water. I sit beside her.
 

I honestly didn’t think this out. There’s no chance we ended up here — at this specific place, just the two of us — by accident, but I swear it didn’t come from conscious thought. The same part of me that had been in charge earlier took us here — the part that responded to the birthday card as automatically as Pavlov’s dogs responded to that famous bell.
 

She says what we’re both thinking before I do.
 

“I’ve only been here once. Just that one time.”
 

I look at her. Angela was spellbound on the helicopter and awed at dinner, blissfully, delightfully unaware of the other diners staring at her lack of proper dress. The way Santa Monica had drawn us home like a beacon occurred to me at least twice, but it had been easy enough to stuff it down, assuring myself that Angela saw none of the meaning my subconscious had pulled us into. Maybe she’d been here since, I reasoned; it made sense, considering its proximity. Surely, she’d have many memories of this place to replace that single damning one.
 

But Angela knew. I could tell by looking into her eyes.
 

“Why did we come here, Parker?”
 

“It seemed like a fun thing to do,” I reply lamely.
 

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I don’t bother to look. That will be Samantha again, trying to reach me so she can yell at me for running out. She tries to keep me on a leash. I don’t allow it, but she keeps trying anyway. Samantha’s leash is between her legs. Usually, I’m helpless, but I suppose I’m also partly numb. I feel different now, betrayed by my sabotaging mind. Now that what could have been an innocent second beginning is tinged with baggage from the past.
 

“I don’t know if you remember — ” she begins.
 

“I remember,” I interrupt her.
 

She continues to stare at the water. Again, I’m struck by her beauty. Angela’s cheekbones are high but smooth. Her lips are full without being too large. Her nose is gently sloped; her brows have that exotic tilt, and her eyes are soulful, shaped like almonds. She was just awkward back then. Nobody saw it through her armor of feigned exuberance and excellent behavior. She’s grown into herself so completely. I hate that I wonder if that extends to her body and force myself to stifle the thought. That’s me pining for a forgotten and impossible past, ruminating because I’ve just had a birthday ending in a zero, feeling my mortality and time’s insidious liquidity.
 

“Why did you come to see me?” she asks, turning.
 

“I … I guess I missed you.”
 

“What did you miss? What were you hoping to renew? Did you just want family again? Did you want sisterly companionship?”
 

“Maybe.”

“Take me home,” Angela says.
 

ANGELA

T
HE
HELICOPTER
RIDE
BACK
IS
quieter than it should be.
 

I try making small talk, and Parker does his best to oblige. I try asking him business questions, inquiring about his acts and the Grammys, what it’s like to work with a partner. I didn’t know Duncan at all back in the day other than by name; today I know him only from the magazines and TV spots about the rising juggernaut that is WinFinity.
 

I ask about Parker’s philanthropy and his goals for the future.
 

Anything but his personal life.
 

Anything but our past.
 

I don’t know why he came. I don’t know why I went with him. I’m deflated and sad. My current malaise came like the flip of a switch. I don’t think my mind registered Santa Monica when we first arrived. Probably because I’d been watching the Ferris wheel lights from the sky, busy being awed by opulence. Parker is magnetic; the magazines have
that
right. I’ve been hypnotized by his charm, his flash, his smile, his confident bearing. And that’s made me forget myself.
 

I hate this man.
 

I hate him because I once loved him.
 

But despite my mood, I can’t see this evening as a total loss no matter how I look at it. Can we continue with the evening? No, not after the memory of Santa Monica became apparent again to us both. Can I continue to be part of Parker’s world like I’ve been tonight? No, I don’t see how. Will Parker bless his father and my mother with wealth, enough to change everything? Impossible.
 

But has there been healing?
 

Yes, I think so.
 

Before tonight, I hadn’t seen Parker in years. He hasn’t been around in any meaningful way since he was nineteen. We — and by “we,” I mean “I” — had to watch him from afar. Now there’s a chance to open communications. To at least thaw our little cold war.

He’s still the icy, distant son of a bitch he’s been. He’s still Parker Altman, the billionaire tycoon cofounder of WinFinity. But now I can see through a recently burrowed hole to the boy I once knew. The boy I once loved but couldn’t have. And that boy, in turn, was two men at once: the hard shell he showed the world and the soft meat underneath. Today’s billionaire armor is the evolved version of the plating Parker wore in his youth. Behind them both is still that same man.
 

Before I know it, we’re lowering onto the roof of what must be Parker’s building.
 

“Why are we here?” I ask.
 

“It’ll be faster for us to hop in a car here than the airport.”
 

I nod.
 

“We can take the elevator all the way down.”
 

“Okay.”
 

“Or you can come in and have a drink.”
 

I sigh. “I don’t know, Parker.”
 

“Look,” he says. “I don’t know what went wrong. I’m sure it was something stupid I did. But there’s no reason for it. We were having fun, weren’t we?”
 

“Yeah. And it was nice. But — ”

“I don’t think I propositioned you.” He smiles wider, to show that he’s joking. He didn’t, no. But half of the problem is that I’m pretty sure that if he had, I’d have fallen right into him.