Wicked Game: a Billionaire Stepbrother Romance (4 page)

“I know how to get you writhing in my bed.”

“I know how your pussy tastes.”

“And you fucking love it.”

Of course, maybe he had changed.  Maybe in those five years, he had grown up like I had.  

“Can we talk,” he asked, “or are you still admiring the view?”

Nope.  Still Damien.  

He might seem like a suave James Bond type on the outside, but inside, he was still the same cocky douche I remembered.  

I gritted my teeth.

“Sure.  Where the hell is my three grand?”

His crooked smile came back.  “Oh, come on, Cleo.  Don’t be like that.  Can’t you see I’m in mourning?”

Mourning.  Right.  With a smirk, Damien leaned forward and brushed a lock of hair from my face, letting his finger trace down my jaw.  His electric touch snapped me out of my trance.

“Haven’t you ever been to a strip club?  Touching costs extra.”

He rolled his eyes.  “I’m sure my lawyer can arrange something.”

Ellison cleared his throat.  “I do inheritance law, not prostitution.”

“Can we not talk about my brilliant future as a hooker in front of the corpse?” I asked, gesturing vaguely toward the casket.  A few celebrities in the corner glanced at us, confused.  Jesus wept, I was going to read in the tabloids tomorrow about the escort picking up clients at funerals.

“I’m very glad you came,” he murmured.

“I came for my money.”  

I stuck my palm out and waited.

“I can see why you picked her,” Ellison said, nodding in approval.

“Picked me?  For what?”

“Come on, Cleo.  We need to talk.”  Damien reached forward to grab my elbow, and I flailed my hand at him like a child.  

“No touching.  Just money.”

“
Cleo
.”

“She’s right,” Ellison said, glancing towards the crowds that swarmed out the doors.  We were the last people left in the emptying church, and there was no way for us to slip out unnoticed now.  “It’s best to get straight to the point.  We don’t have much time.”

“Time for what?” I snapped.  

My bullshit senses were tingling.  This couldn’t be good.  

“Listen, Cleo,” Damien sighed.  “How about this: you come home with me so we can talk, and I’ll give you your three grand when we get back home.”

“How about you give me the money you promised me now, and then you get fucked.”

Ellison snorted a laugh.  Damien’s eyes twinkled.  

I could see it again—Damien had always been a playboy, and he’d always been rich.  He was used to getting his way.  Men wanted to be him, women wanted to be with him, everyone kissed his rich playboy ass.  Until he met me, a foul mouthed teenager with her communist phase in full swing.  I didn’t play his wicked little game.  And that made me irresistible to him.  

Except now I was a foul mouthed adult with her starving unemployed lady phase in full swing.  

Still not ready to play that wicked game.

And I was sure as hell not going anywhere without that money.

With an exaggerated sigh, Damien reached into his coat pocket.  His fingers clutched a thick bundle of dollar bills, which he pressed into my hands.  I counted each fifty carefully.  The celebrities in the corner craned their necks, now sure that I was a professional funeral hooker.

Hm.  I didn’t know much about adult Damien, but he didn’t seem like the kind to have three grand in his pocket for no reason.  He must have realized I was a stubborn ass who wouldn’t leave without it.  

He knew me well.

I stuffed the cash into my purse, ready to leave.  Before I could, Damien tipped my chin up with a finger.  That cocky smile was back.  That never meant anything good.

“How about this,” he said, glancing toward the thinning crowds ahead of us.  “Come home to talk with me, and I’ll give you another three thousand in addition to that.”

“How about no.”

“I’ll make it five thousand.”

I glared at him, my fist clenching and unclenching.  

Five thousand was nothing to him, but to me, it was just enough to start a new life with.  A Blackwood-free life.  Hopefully one that would never leave me at his mercy like this again.  

Damien smiled at me easily, that teasing grin I knew so well.  I hadn’t seen it in years, but it still did terrible things to me.

Pants things.

Goddamn playboy billionaires.

“Fine,” I said tightly.  “I’m bringing mace.”

“Kinky.”

I forced myself to turn away, grabbing my purse and readying myself to punch a few paparazzi out of the way.  Ellison’s soft chuckle and Damien’s cocky grin followed after me.  Before I could shove my way through the door, I heard his voice call out after me one more time.

“I’ll send a driver by to pick you up at six.  Sound good?”

“Don’t talk to me.”

“And by the way, Cleo?”

I turned to glare at him one more time.

He winked.

“You look dead fucking sexy in that dress.”

If I thought the paparazzi at the funeral were bad, it was only because I hadn’t seen the ones that stalked Damien.  

Don’t worry.  I learned how bad it was as soon as I slid into the heated leather seats of the limo waiting for me outside his office building.  Even from our hidden parking space in the back, the roar of voices and footsteps from the crowd outside the gate was deafening.  I crossed my arms, my gaze flitting from the crowd building in front to the sight of Damien exiting under the neon sign that blared BLACKWOOD ENTERPRISES.  

A couple of platinum blondes in tight black dresses followed him like lovesick puppies.

No.  That did not bother me at all.  

Stop feeling bothered, Cleo.

“You shouldn’t worry,” said Ellison as he slipped into the seat next to me.  

Ugh, was it that obvious?  

I tried to empty my stressed expression, but my heart was pounding hard enough that I was sure he could hear it anyway.  Ellison reached across me to the small table in front of us, popping the top open to reveal a hidden minibar.  He poured himself a small glass of expensive scotch.  

Hell.  A private limousine, a personal lawyer, and secret scotch compartments.

I’d give Damien one thing—he knew how to live in luxury.

“The windows are tinted,” Ellison said, nodding toward them.  “So they can’t see us.  Yet.”

“Is it always this bad?” I said, gesturing toward the wild paparazzi.

“Oh, no.  It’s usually much worse.”

Fantastic.

The driver warned that we would leave in five minutes, and my sick stomach did another somersault.  A pile of magazines sitting on the table gave me something to nervously flip through as I chewed my thumbnail.  My stomach was beginning to turn again, getting seasick from the camera flashes blinding me from outside the tinted window.  Damien slipped into the seat across from me and began rummaging through the minibar as the limo’s engine started.  

“You look nervous, Cleo.”

“Probably because my ex-stepbrother has taken me hostage.”

“Hostage?  You agreed to be here.  Hell, I’m paying you.”

“Right,” I said dryly.

He sighed dramatically, stretching out over the broad black leather seat.  His strong arms rested on the tops of the seats, giving me a perfect view of his white dress shirt stretched tight over the muscles of his shoulder and chest.  He bit his lip as he studied me, and I remembered how good that lip had tasted in my own mouth.  Or how amazing those fingers felt as they worked against my clit.  Or how goddamn good it felt to have him stretch me full….

No, no, no, Cleo!

Stop thinking like that.

“Admiring the view again?” Damien asked casually.

I ignored him, slipping down behind the protective shield of the tabloid.

Damien poured himself his own glass of scotch as the limo crept to a slow start.  The roar of the cameras and groupie crowd ahead of us grew louder, and I felt a wave of nausea hit me.  God, why had I agreed to this at all?

Oh right.  Five thousand.

I frowned and leaned back in my seat as we pulled through the gate that had been protecting us from the mob.  Shouts rose up outside as a few security guards ripped paparazzi out of the way.  A wave of camera shutters clicked around us, the flashing lights popping off like fourth of July fireworks.  Screams of “Damien” and “look here!” deafened me.  I jumped in my seat as someone’s fist pounded against my window.  And—seriously?  Through the tinted glass, I could see the faces of a crowd of women eagerly craning their necks out for a glimpse of him.  

I wondered if I should shout at them that he once ate dog food as a child.

Damien seemed oblivious to the chaos around us.

I guess this was his normal.

But it sure as hell wasn’t mine.

“What’s this?” I asked, turning back to the magazine as I struggled to ignore the Armageddon.  Damien leaned over to see the page I was on, resting his smooth hand on my knee.  God, his hands felt good on me.  My heart skipped a beat as the warmth of his body brushed mine.  

I swallowed down my fluttering heart and focused on the page.  It held one massive picture of Damien in a tuxedo, looking especially delicious as he smoldered into the camera.  I studied the tiny lettering in the corner, trying to make out what new gossip item he’d gotten himself into now.  

“New lady friend?” I asked.  “It says you’re getting married.”

Engaged, and you still get up close and personal with the girl you’d fucked half-crazy as a teenager?

Sorry, future Mrs. Blackwood.  Seems like my ex-big brother hadn’t changed at all.

Not that she had anything to worry about.  There was no way in hell Ex-Big Brother was getting my pants again.  No matter how many warm hands he groped my knee with.

Still, it was odd to hear that Damien was marrying again.  That shouldn’t annoy me.  He was nothing to me but a bad memory, the annoying ex-stepbrother that had turned into a ridiculous teenage mistake.

But I gritted my teeth.

“Don’t worry about it,” Damien said, snatching the magazine from me.  

Rude.

“Who’s the lucky lady?” I asked, leaning back in the seat and studying my nails.  “She’s going to be pissed when she finds out you’re paying strange women to climb into the back of your car.”

“You’re not strange.  We’re family, remember?”

He raised an eyebrow and bit his lip, daring me to go into another ‘not family, never will be rant’ from our childhood.  But I couldn’t.  Not with him looking at me like that.  I clasped my hands in my lap, ignoring the tingling shakes that ran through them.

“She’ll still be pissed,” I said, not convincing even myself.

A strange, sneaky smile lit up his lips.

“I don’t think she minds.”

“What?  She’s into swinging?  Open relationship?”

“Not really.”

That crazy smile had gotten bigger.  I narrowed my eyes at him.

I knew that crazy smile.  It was the same crazy smile he had used when he convinced me to sneak out for a joyride in his dad’s million dollar sports car.  Or when he locked his dad’s purebred horse in the office of the principal of our expensive, exclusive private school.  Or when I found out about the first mistress (among the many dear old Blackwood had used to cheat on Mom), and we mixed electric blue hair dye into her shampoo.  You could hear the shrieks for miles after that one.

Anyway, it never meant anything good.

I was starting to really regret getting into this car.

“Ugh,” I groaned, glaring out the window at the flood of paparazzi that followed us.  Three different cars had been stalking us down the highway, and it wasn’t until now that I realized they were full of cameras.  We were nearly to the Blackwood mansion, and they were still tight on our tail.  Persistent fuckers.  “I hate cameras.  Especially now.  I look like crap.”

“I told you.  You look dead fucking sexy.”

I brushed off the comment and the way it sank into me with a delicious shiver.  My shaking fingers drew the coat around my shoulders tighter against the chill.  It didn’t work.  I probably should have known the chill wasn’t from the cold.