Wicked Game: a Billionaire Stepbrother Romance (5 page)

“I still hate paparazzi,” I said.  “I think that’s what I hated most about Mom marrying your dad.  I always felt so awkward in front of them.  At least it wasn’t as bad then as bad is it is now.”

I glanced down at the tabloid on the table, still open to the picture of Damien smoldering into the camera as the columnist speculated about which actress or heiress he was banging now.  My gaze fell on one line that wondered if he was ‘as wild in bed as he is in the boardroom.’

If you only knew, lady.

“You’ll get used to them,” he said, shrugging as he swirled his drink in the glass.  I studied him through slit eyes as he downed it.  Excuse me?  What?

“And what the hell does that mean?” I said.

“You’ll figure it out,” he said

Oh hell.  Now I
knew
I was in for some trouble.

Of course, I was already in for trouble, because we were pulling up the massive Blackwood mansion.  Even for New York, the Blackwood mansion was insanely grand—it looked like a palace in the midst of rolling hills of green, and a massive garden spread out in front of it.  That was the one nice thing about Mom’s brief marriage to Bernard.  Nothing made you feel like a princess like living with the Blackwoods.  

But that wasn’t the trouble.  

Grand iron gates surrounded the estate, but that didn’t stop the paparazzi from crowding around it like vermin.  Swarms of them were screaming, holding up cameras, readying themselves to storm the car.  I sank further down in my seat as my heart dropped into my stomach.

“It’s fine, Cleo,” Damien said.  “Just take my hand and follow me.  The guards at the gate will keep us from being grabbed or threatened.”

“Fine,” I repeated numbly.

Damien had one hell of a weird definition for that word.

As we pulled up to the gate, Damien took my hand in his.  For once, it didn’t feel strange or exciting, or even disgusting.  It felt comforting.  Ellison left first, preparing the security guards to protect us.  Then, slowly, he helped me slip out of the limo.  

A wall of security guards shielded us from the worst of it, but only for the moment.

“Trust me, Cleo,” Damien said, patting my hand.  “It’ll get easier the more you do it.”

I was about to snap that I didn’t plan on doing this ever again, but I didn’t get the chance.  At that moment, the wall of guards broke to allow us through to the gate.  

Unfortunately, it also allowed the swarm in.

“Damien,” someone shrieked.

Oh.  

Fucking.  

Hell.

A horde of paparazzi thundered toward us, and I was blinded by a wave of camera flashes and shutter clicks.  I held my hands in front of my face, stumbling back wildly.  Damien caught me in his arms.  For once, I was glad he was holding me.  I would have died of embarrassment had the cameras caught me tripping to the ground with my skirt over my head.

The tabloids would already be reporting that I was the infamous funeral hooker.  

The last thing I needed was to be the clumsy funeral hooker too.

“Get away!” I growled at one cameraman who snapped a close up of my face.

“Be nice,” Damien murmured.  “We need the publicity.”

“For what?”

By now, we were surrounded.  My heart sank.  There was no way we were getting out of this one anymore.  I would become just another name in the gossip column about Damien’s playboy exploits, and this time I’d be known for jumping his bones before his father was even cold in the ground.  My dreams of becoming a curator at any place outside of “Jim Bob’s Oklahoma Corn Museum” were completely dead.

“Who’s she?” one paparazzo shouted.

Here lies Cleo’s future, rest in peace.

“Her?”  Damien’s voice was cheery, as if he didn’t understand exactly how disastrous this was.  On a scale of spilled milk to Chernobyl, this was the mass extinction comet that wiped out the dinosaurs.  “A very special lady!”

Oh God.  That tone.  

That ‘I’ve got a secret, would you like to hear?’ tone.

That tone never meant anything good, not when it came to Damien.

Damien smiled, wrapping an arm around me and pulling me close to him.  My fingers clenched into a fist.  Not because he was dangerous—but because this felt too damn good, and I seriously needed to get away before I did something stupid.  Even now, as my life was crumbling around me, being close to him still did things to me.  I couldn’t let that happen.  Just because I didn’t hate him anymore didn’t mean I liked him, or even trusted him.  

And anyway, a cocky motherfucker like Damien needed a good slap to the face for once.

But I didn’t get the chance.  

Because Damien smiled easily, squeezed my waist, and turned to the cameras.

“Tell us who she is!” someone yelled.

“Of course.”  He grinned out at the cameras and planted a massive kiss on the top of my head.  I froze as his hand patted my hip lovingly.  

“What are you—” I hissed under my breath.

He interrupted me.  

“Everyone, meet my wife.”
 

“Wife?”

“Look.  Cleo.  I know—”

“
Wife
?”

“We can talk about this.  We can be reasonable.  I know it’s a lot to take in all at once, but once we settle down and really talk about this like adults—”

“
Fucking wife
?!”

“Yes, Cleo,” he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.  Damien leaned back against one of the bookshelves that lined his office walls, shaking his head at me like
I
was the one being ridiculous here.  Like
I
was the one who just told a crowd of reporters from the biggest news agencies in the country that I was marrying my billionaire stepbrother.  Like
I
was the one who had totally ruined Cleo’s Big Plan to Escape This City and Never See Damien Again.

I stood in front of him, my face turning red with rage.  

My fists clenched and unclenched.  

We had finally made it inside the massive Blackwood mansion and settled ourselves in Damien’s office, but I could still feel the invading eyes of the paparazzi all around us.  I could practically hear their camera shutters and scuffling feet outside the door.  Worst of all, I could already see the headlines that would be everywhere tomorrow.  All of them surrounding a big, fat picture of Cleopatra Bishop in deathly shock as her billionaire stepbrother delivered the emotional bomb of a lifetime in front of a crowd of strangers.

A crowd of strangers with
cameras
.

Maybe right now was a good time to give Damien that well-deserved slap.

“You have ten seconds,” I hissed.  “Ten seconds to explain, and
maybe
I won’t kill you.  If I’m feeling nice today.  Which I’m not.”

“Unclench your fists first, Sis.”

“Six seconds before the next big headline is your black eye.”

“Damn, I love it when you’re feisty.”

“Two seconds before I put you in a coffin.”

“Ouch, Cleo.”

My frown softened.  He was right.  I probably should have remembered we had just gotten back from his dad’s funeral.  It was a low blow, even for Damien.  Even if he and his dad had never really liked each other… which was an understatement.  

It was shitty, even if springing a surprise marriage on your estranged sister was at least slightly shittier.

“Sorry,” I grumbled.  “But you’re still going to explain.”

“Yes,” Ellison said, clicking his pen.  “We are.  I think now’s a good a time as any to get the papers ready, right Mr. Blackwood?”

Damien nodded.  He didn’t take his eyes off me.

“What papers?” I asked.  “What the hell is going on?”

“Here, Cleo,” Damien said, sitting down on one of the luxurious red velvet seats.  He patted the seat next to him.  I sat, but on the couch opposite him.  He rolled his eyes.

Tough, buddy.  The last thing I need is your hands on me.

Especially because it might make marriage sound not too bad.

Ellison pulled a stack of papers from the desk in the corner and joined us on the couches.  They spread out on the table between us with a flutter, hundreds and hundreds of perfectly stapled pages of contract and legalese.  I caught the words “nondisclosure agreement” at the top of one, and immediately the bottom of my stomach fell.  

I knew enough about the Blackwoods to know that never meant something good.

Damien smirked at my grimace.  Yes, those few hours ago had definitely been the last time I would ever be happy to see a lawyer again.  

“What are these?” I asked weakly.

This was definitely not worth five thousand dollars.

Hell, I’d pay five thousand dollars to not be here right now.

“This,” Ellison said with a flourish of the hand, “is your marriage.”

“I’m not married.”

“Not yet.”

“What in the fresh hell are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about you two,” Ellison said, pulling out his pen and marking something on one corner of a page.  “Though I’m sure Mr. Blackwood can explain better.”

“He sure as shit better.”

Damien smiled wider.  His eyes twinkled as they studied me, and it made me squirm in my seat.  I hated seeing him all worked up and cheeky like this.  It made me feel like we were teenagers again, sneaking out into his dad’s garage after stealing the keys to the Aston Martin.  Something bad, something secret, something exciting that made me feel alive.

It felt naughty.  It felt like adventure.

Adult Cleo hated adventure.

“This one,” Damien said, plucking up a fat stack of stapled papers, “is Dad’s will.”

“And it says we have to get married?”

“Yes.”

I felt my eyes sink closed and my fists clench again.  I hated it when he made no sense (which was just about all the time).  I hated more that he was getting such a kick out of confusing me like this.  Especially because we both knew the last thing Bernard Blackwood would ever want was his shameful ex-stepdaughter in bed with his only child and heir to his fortune.

Hell, that was half the reason I had slipped into Damien’s bed that night.

I took a deep breath and glanced at him again, frowning at the cocky look in his eyes.

The urge to slap him was getting worse, especially when he grinned at me like that.

“Explain,” I ordered through gritted teeth.

He leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms as he smiled.  

“Well, Sis, dear old Dad had a problem with my … immaturity.”

“So do I.”

“See?  You two have so much in common.  Anyway, Dad especially had a problem with my immaturity when it comes to women.”  He nodded at the tabloid on the table.  The same one that had been in the car, the one with the columnist listing out all the different starlets Damien had pranced around with.  “He said it was unprofessional for the president of a business empire to run around with so many women, to refuse to settle down.  That a real businessman knew that appearances are important.”

“Appearances?”

He nodded.  “Specifically, the appearance of being a playboy.  It’s not good for public image.  And public image is everything when you’re the face of a business.”

“Seriously?” I snorted.  “He’s criticizing you for sleeping around because it ‘hurts public image’?  How many women did Bernard fuck behind Mom’s back?”  I nearly gagged.  “He’s the last person on earth to be whining about being a playboy.”

“I know.”  Damien paused, studying me.  “That’s why he hated you, you know.  Not because you outed him to your mother, but because you outed him to the public.  He hated being seen like that.  He hated people knowing the truth.  You embarrassed him.”

“He’s a hypocrite.”

“Trust me, Cleo.  I know.”  He shrugged.  A very
this is my life, I didn’t make the rules
shrug.  “Regardless, his problem isn’t with me dating—”

“Dating,” I repeated sarcastically, using my fingers to make air quotes.  Judging by the number of names I had seen in that column, Damien’s relationships seemed to last exactly three hours and half a bottle of vodka.