My Billionaire Stepbrother (9 page)

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 impersonal. 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.

“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!”