Stepbrother Thief (31 page)

“Gill.”

He's sitting at his desk, a gun in his hand, some rounds sitting on the cluttered surface next to him. He doesn't even look up when I come in. In fact, since that day with Solène, he's only spoken to me in short, clipped sentences, most of the time when we have an audience. Other than his invitation to dinner, I haven't been able to get anything out of him. It's driving me nuts, just like it did when he first came back. I hate seeing him pretend not to care. It's so much worse than knowing he still does, hearing about it, listening to him tell me everything I ever wanted to hear. If he hadn't waited ten years to say it, I probably would've taken him back. Five years ago, I would've wept at the offer. But now, I've grown past that, grown up.

Gill finishes loading the magazine and inserts it into his gun, setting the whole thing aside as I shut the door behind me.

God.

Being in an enclosed space like this makes my brain muggy, my thoughts scrambled. When I lean back and rest against his door, I get hit with the memory of his hand sliding inside my blouse.

“Are we going to talk about this?”

“Which
this
?” he asks, his voice calm and reasonable, his expression neutral.

“What I said really hurt you, didn't it?” I ask, refusing to shy away from the subject. Why should I? I'm tired of this affecting my life, affecting Solène's life, Cliff's. Gill and me, we need to deal with everything, just get it all out in the open and walk away from it. I used to think that meant walking away from him after this was all over, but now that Solène knows he's her father, I can't do that, not if Gilleon's serious about having a relationship with her. “About no reason being good enough?”

“It's the truth though, isn't it?” he asks on the end of a long sigh, running his fingers through his hair. The tattoos on Gill's arm ripple like shadows in the dim light as he stands up and puts his hands on his hips. He's wearing a black T-shirt today that pulls tight across his chest, and a pair of green camo cargo pants—casually badass and sexy as hell, as usual. “Why should I be hurt? What you said was true, and you're right.” My heart skips a beat as Gill takes a step towards me and pauses, searching my face for something.

“That's it? Just
you're right,
and that's all? Why don't you tell me, Gill. I can see the secrets in your eyes, and they're killing you.” I move away from the door and sit on the edge of his bed, the smell of Gilleon enveloping me, like he's somehow marked his room with that spicy male scent of his. Goose bumps crawl up my arms and I have to take a breath to calm myself. I pat the mattress next to me and put a smile on my face. “Look, we've been letting our emotions get the better of us, but that's obviously not working out so well.”

Gill's mouth twitches into a small smile.

“I've been okay with the way it's been working out,” he says, voice darkening into a sensual purr that makes me seriously question my desire to come in here. Between one heartbeat and the next, the amusement in his face fades, almost as quickly as it came, leaving Gill frowning down at me while some sort of internal struggle goes on behind his eyes.

“How can telling me really hurt the situation, Gilleon?”

“I don't want you to hate me, Regina,” he says, the words cutting deep, striking a chord in me.

“I don't hate you, Gill,” I say with a sigh, but he's already shaking his head, turning away and looking down at the floor as he tries to gather himself together.

“Not now, but you will. If I tell you, you will.”

I purse my lips and stand up straight, crossing my arms over my chest.

“Why don't you give me the benefit of the doubt, Gill? Try me, see what happens.” I watch Gill's back, the purposeful rise and fall of his chest, like he's doing his best to contain his emotions. “Two days ago, our daughter called us Mom and Dad for the first time,” I say, and that catches his attention. He turns around, his heavy boots loud on the floor beneath his feet. “Three days before that, I watched you do something unspeakable, something that should have me running for the hills. But I'm not, Gill. I'm right here. I'm still
right here.
” I drop my arms as he moves close to me, lifting his hands up and sliding his fingers down the long sleeves of my white cashmere sweater. I swallow hard as Gill's right hand plays with the black lace-up ribbon detail on my shoulder.

“Maybe you should be running, Regina? Maybe you should get as far away from me as you possibly can? Take Solène and go. Hell, take that old man with you, too. Just go and forget everything about me.” He slides his hands down my upper arms to my elbows, rubbing his thumbs against the soft fabric and making me catch my breath. If there's one thing Gilleon's an expert at—besides robbing jewelry stores—it's being sensual. Sensual. I can't get enough of him.

“Why come back into my life like this and then tell me to go?”

“Because if you don't, I won't be able to control myself,” he whispers, leaning down and brushing his lips against mine. The kiss only lasts for half a second before Gill's pulling away and I'm reaching out—
again—
and grabbing onto his arm. The last time I reached for him, I sucked his dick. This time …

“Maybe that's your problem, Gill? Control. Stop trying to control everything. Let go. Live a little.” My nails slide across his bare skin, across the hard bulge of his bicep, and I watch in satisfaction as goose bumps follow the lines of my fingertips. I drop my hand, fully aware that Gill's standing between the bed and the door, blocking me in with my thighs pressed back against his mattress.

I curl my hands into fists, determined not to let this situation get out of control.

“You asked me to dinner again, so let's go, let's talk, let's figure this all out.”

He's just staring at me now, staring with that sapphire blue gaze of his, eyes half-hooded and lips gently parted. Gill looks anything but gentle right now though. He caresses the stubble on his jaw with one hand and then pauses, taking in a deep breath and then reaching down and curling his fingers under the hem of his T-shirt.

“I'd fight an army for the privilege to take you out, Regi.” Gill gives me a rough smile. “But I'm not going out like this. Let me shower and shave first.” And then he rips his shirt up and over his head, tossing it onto the bed next to me.

Gill's body is built like a god's, like some artist's impossible goal of perfection, chiseled over years from a block of unyielding stone. Only I know that if I touch him, his skin will be warm, hot even, that the softness of his lips will make up for the roughness of the stubble on his face. I try not to stare at the rounded swell of muscles in his tattooed arm, at the way the ink of his tattoos climbs up and over his shoulder, the face of a panther staring back at me from his right pec.

I feel lightheaded and sweaty, like an addict staring down their drug of choice. It's not fair that he can do this to me.

“That's a dirty move, Gilleon,” I say, pointing at him. “Real dirty.”

He watches me, just like the jungle cat inked on his body, as I move carefully around him and reach for the doorknob, sweat beading on my forehead and lower back.

“I'll meet you downstairs at six?” I ask.

“I'll be there, Regi.” Gill smiles and nods briefly before reaching down to unbutton his pants. I don't stick around long enough to see
that
show.

#

“
If I'd known we'd be moving to Paris, I would've started taking French in junior high, before German.” I pause and take a sip of my coffee, looking at my stepdad over the rim of my mug. “Well, maybe instead of Spanish. My German teacher was actually kind of cute.” Cliff laughs and shakes his head, his salt and pepper hair catching the light from the chandelier hanging above us.

“Well, that Rosetta Stone program we got was the best thing that ever happened to me. Even after living in Toulouse with Gilleon's mom, I had yet to pick up more than a few words of French.” He chuckles again and sets his coffee down, trading it out for one of the colorful macaroons that are sitting pretty in the center of the table. “It's not easy to learn via immersion when everyone around you speaks English.”

“And interrupts your French like it's the most painful thing they've ever heard in their life,” I say with a laugh, copying Cliff and going for a goodie. “I could barely get a 'bonjour' out before there were raised brows and cringes all around.” I smile at the memory and take a bite of my food, closing my eyes in bliss. Pierre Hermé makes the best freaking macaroons in the city. I make a mental note to order a box of them for my sister, Anika; her birthday's coming up.

“Your mother spoke the most beautiful French,” Cliff says with a sigh, his eyes getting faraway like they always do when he reminiscences about Elena. They weren't together long, but he claims that she was his soul mate, that he'll never date again. I hope that's not true—I want my stepdad to be happy—but the sentiment is sweet. Holding onto lost loves … it's not worth it.

I swallow down my bite of macaroon and pick up my coffee again. No way am I letting my mind go down
that
particular route. It's too beautiful this morning, too sunny, the streets too bustling. I won't think about Gilleon right now.

“
On pourra aller au parc tout à l'heure? Je sens que j'ai besoin de sortir aujourd'hui. Je déteste être enfermée dans cet appartement,
” Solène says, appearing in the entrance to the kitchen with her dark hair in ringlets, a white and yellow dress flouncing around as she twists from side to side and rolls her eyes dramatically.
Can we go to the park later? I feel like I need to get out today. I hate being cooped up in this apartment.

“Oui, we can go out together, just me and you. It'll be a girls' day,” I say, responding in English so Solène can get some practice in. She takes English in school, too, but it never hurts to hear more than one language at home.

“Oh, Regina, you're so lovely,” she tells me in a tone that's far too mature for her age. I should stop letting her and Cliff watch all those old movies together. Solène bounces into the kitchen, kisses me on the cheek, and steals a macaroon. I watch her skip away, my heart twisting at how much like Gilleon she is—fair skinned, dark haired, blue-eyed, full of wry humor. I wish he could've known her growing up. I've given up on that dream though. Hell, I gave up on that one a long, long time ago. I've resigned myself to the idea that my daughter might never known I'm her mother and not just her way older sister.

Cliff reaches out and pats my hand before withdrawing it with a sad smile. I give him a tight one back.

“I'm proud of you, Regina. You've come so far in the last ten years. For a while there, I was afraid I'd lose you.” I brush away the sad feelings inside, push them back, and let my smile get a little more real, a little brighter. I try to stay positive at all times—it's the only way to truly live.

“Thanks, Papa,” I say, looking down into my coffee.

“Enough of that,” Cliff says, waving his hand dismissively as I glance up. “What we were talking about again?”

“How your French is still clipped and barbaric, even after all these years.” My stepdad laughs as I grin at him. “Don't worry—another ten years in Paris and I think you'll be able to converse with the locals
without
them cringing in disgust.”

“Dad.”

Cliff and I both startle, chairs sliding across the hardwood floors. I manage to spill coffee all over my own lap. It drips down my legs, staining my white Herve Leger pencil skirt and splattering my new black suede booties.

But I don't notice any of that—not my ruined clothes or the stinging burns on my fingers from the hot liquid. All I can see right now is
him.

Gilleon Marchal.

My stepbrother, long lost love, and the father of my daughter—all wrapped up into one tall, sexy package. A package I haven't seen in over a decade. Over. A. Decade.

I choke on my own saliva, stumbling to the sink and leaning over as I try to breathe in through my nose.

“Gilleon?” Cliff sounds almost as shocked as I feel, and he's
seen
his son a handful of times over the last few years. Plus, they chat on the phone every now and then. For me, though, this is like seeing a ghost. “How did you get in here? Isn't the front door …”

“I picked the lock,” Gill says, the slightest hint of amusement in his voice and the quirk of his lips. It fades as quick as it came, leaving that gorgeous face of his a blank slate.

I'm so dizzy that I can barely stand, but I make myself face him, pushing up from the sink and trying to maintain my balance in the four inch heels on my feet.

“Regina,” he says, his voice a rough whisper. There's no emotion there though, just a simple greeting, a hello he'd give to any stranger. I stare right back, my own voice caught in my throat, struggling to get out, to do something drastic. I want to scream at him, throw something, but at the same time … I want to run into his arms, feel those strong muscles wrap around my body and hold me close.