Prince Albert: A Billionaire Stepbrother Romance

by Sabrina Paige

  Classy, distinguished, mature.

  He squeezes my hand, and leans over to whisper to me. “I just want you to remember that I love you,” he says.

  “What did you do?” I whisper back.

  “Quiet,” he says. “We’re at an important event.”

  I glance to the side to see Alex, my maid of honor, smiling. Then I hear the titters of people in the crowd, white noise that ripples through the church.

  I look up.

  They’re laughing because Albie has done something totally unprecedented. I can’t imagine this has ever happened, in the history of royal weddings, around the world. I don’t know how many people he had to bribe to make it happen.

  It’s not the priest standing in front of us right now, the one who was supposed to officiate the ceremony – the one who officially marries members of the royal family, important people.

  Nope.

  It’s Fake Elvis.

  Fake Elvis is standing in the middle of this church, ready to marry Prince Albert and Princess Isabella of Protrovia.

  Wearing a white and gold jumpsuit with so much bling it rivals any of the wedding party.

  I turn to Albie, my eyes wide. “You did not get fake Elvis to officiate,” I whisper in disbelief.

  King Leopold is probably going to have a coronary.

  I try to stifle my giggle, covering my mouth with my hand, but wind up snorting, which makes it worse. It’s terrible, and awful, and the most ridiculous thing imaginable.

  And so incredibly inappropriate.

  But it’s somehow just right.

  Albie takes my hands, and the murmurs from the crowd begin to quiet. It’s not even time for the vows, but he speaks. “I know this is off script,” he says. “But I’d like to say my vows now, if that’s okay.”

  He’s asking permission from Fake Elvis to go off-script at our wedding.

  The thought sends a ripple of laughter through me again, and when I try to hold it in, my eyes water.

  “I know you’re all shook up by this grand gesture,” Albie says. And I snort. Out loud.

  I try to glare at him, but find it impossible to be angry.

  “On a serious note,” Albie says, clearing his throat. “People have an idea about how relationships should be. Boy meets girl, they fall in love, get married, and live happily ever after. Nothing about our relationship has happened the way it’s supposed to. We got married first. And you couldn’t stand me.”

  “I can’t imagine why,” I say, and the crowd laughs.

  “But then we fell in love,” Albie says. “And here we are, getting married for real this time. But that night in Las Vegas, when it was just the two of us – and Fake Elvis – that was the night I first fell in love with you. And as ridiculous as it might be, that’s where we began. And I never want to forget it.”

  Albie pulls me forward, his lips close to mine, and now we’re really off-script, but I don’t care.

  Fake Elvis says, “Well, you may kiss this hunk of –“

  And I do.

  Before Elvis even finishes, Albie pulls me against him and brings his lips down on mine. And when I close my eyes, it’s like kissing him again for the first time – butterflies in my stomach and the world spinning around me. Except this time, that’s not because I’ve had five shots of tequila in the back of a limo in Vegas.

  This time, it’s because I’m undeniably, head-over-heels, irresistibly in love.

  And I’m not the least bit nervous about showing it.

  In front of God and all of these witnesses.

  Including Fake Elvis.

  THE END

  I hope you enjoyed Prince Albert! Your copy of this book includes a bonus book, Tool: A Stepbrother Romance! Continue going to access that book, if you haven’t read it!

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Prince Albert has been brewing in my head pretty much ever since I published my last stepbrother book. It’s the most ridiculous, over-the-top, and totally implausible story I’ve written. And I hope you love it.

  The country, Protrovia, is fictional.

  And there’s more sex than you might be used to from my books. For that, well, I can’t say I’m all that sorry.

  This edition of Prince Albert also contains another full-length book! Continue forward to read Tool: A Stepbrother Romance or

  Click Here

  to be sent directly to the book. Enjoy!

  OTHER STEPBROTHER BOOKS

  All of my stepbrother books are standalone novels with HEAs and are not part of a series.

  Prick

  Tool

  Cannon

  OTHER BOOKS

  West Bend Saints Series

  Elias

  Silas

  Luke

  Motorcycle Club Books

  Taming Blaze

  Saving Axe

  Breaking Hammer

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  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Sabrina Paige writes about smart, sexy women and the hot alpha males who love them. Outlaw bikers, cowboys, and military men make her swoon. She has found her own happily ever after with her active duty military husband and adorable toddler.

  I would love to hear from you!

  Email: sabrinapaigeromance@gmail.com

  Website: www.sabrinapaigeromance.com

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  TOOL

  Sabrina Paige

  I call him “Tool” because he’s a prick.

  Gaige O’Neal is nicknamed “Tool” because of what he’s packing. Rumor is that he’s well equipped.

  He’s a cocky, entitled, insufferable jerkwho’s as reckless with women as he is with that stupid motorcycle he races.

  It's been four years since I've seen him. Four years ago, he was the bane of my existence. And my best friend, my biggest confidant, my first love.

  My stepbrother.

  It’s just my luck that the first time I see him in four years, he’s buried beneath three scantily clad blondes.

  Now I’m stuck here under the same roof with him while he recovers from a racing injury. An injury that clearly hasn’t affected the use of his tool.

  The problem is, as much as I despise him, I just can’t help myself. I want to find out what kind of tool he's working with.

  Copyright © 2015 by Sabrina Paige

  This book is a work of fiction. Any similarity to real events, people, or places is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced or distributed in any format without the permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations used for review. If you have not purchased this book from Amazon or received a copy from the author, you are reading a pirated book.

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status of products referred to in this book and acknowledges that trademarks have been used without permission.

  This book contains mature content, including graphic sex. Please do not continue reading if you are under the age of 18 or if this type of content is disturbing to you.

  NOTE: All characters in the book are 18+ years of age, non-blood related, and all sexual acts are consensual.

  To check out the rest of Sabrina Paige's catalog on Amazon, CLICK HERE!

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine


  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  DEDICATION

  As always, to my husband who puts up with my antics. And to my daughter, who's inherited his.

  ToSara Bartlett, Jordan Marie, Joanna Blake, and Cora Brent for all of your support and for reading my crappy first draft.

  Thanks toJess Peterson putting together a cover reveal and release day party, and to Terra Oenning for spreading word for me about Tool's cover reveal!

  Many thanks to Sabrina's Sirens and to all the other fans to tell their friends about my books. I am so grateful for all you do!

  And, last but certainly not least, for my readers. I hope you love Tool as much as I do. The innuendo is totally intended. Snicker.

  CHAPTER ONE

  DELANEY

  At least this day can't get any worse.

  Famous last words, I know. Except I can't help but think it, even as I'm limping down the walkway, headed toward the guesthouse and dragging my suitcase behind me.

  The suitcase makes a sound that's only slightly less grating than nails on a chalkboard as I drag it over the concrete. It's held together with twine, clothes poking out of the sides every which way, and a giant sticker peeling at the edges that reads, "Notice of Inspection." I'm holding one of the wheels in my hand, because of course as soon as I picked it up at baggage claim, a wheel went rolling off.

  The suitcase looks better than I do, actually. You know those romantic comedies where the heroine falls in a fountain or gets caught in a downpour and is supposed to appear bedraggled but instead is breathtakingly gorgeous in spite of her dripping hair and clothes? Yeah, that's pretty much exactly the opposite of what I look like.

  I look like I walked off the set of a horror movie. Outside of the airport, I caught my heel in a grate while I was walking and ripped it clean off my brand new designer shoe, crashing onto the sidewalk and skinning my knee. While I was hailing a cab, my umbrella had some kind of seizure, so my hair is plastered to my head; my clothes are soaked; and my black bra is completely visible through my white t-shirt. I know my shirt is transparent, because the cab driver was helpful enough to point it out for me.

  I'm hoping I can make it to the guesthouse without any further catastrophe. I didn't even stop at the main house – I want to clean up before seeing anyone I know, and as soon as I glimpsed the cars in the driveway, I knew I had to avoid that place.

  I've just flown back to Dallas to start my new job, working in my father's company, Marlowe Oil -- my first professional job out of college. The last thing I need is to show up at the door looking like a hot mess in front of whatever business associates my family is likely entertaining.

  Sneaking around to the guesthouse is a much smarter choice in my condition.

  Besides, I don't think I even have the mental capacity to make coherent conversation with anyone. All I want is a shower. Actually, make that a bath. I want a bath and a stiff drink.

  At least it's not raining anymore. That has to count for something, right?

  I push open the door to the guesthouse with my shoulder, trying to wrangle my suitcase through the doorway. I'm making such a commotion that it's only when I turn around, I realize I'm not alone.

  In fact, not alone is the understatement of the year.

  There are probably twenty people staring at me. I scan the room, taking in their faces, trying to process the scene in my brain. It's some kind of photo shoot, models and makeup artists and clothing hung on racks in the corner of the room. Strategically placed lighting illuminates the set, and a photographer is turned toward the door, paused with his camera in hand, staring at me.

  I'm standing here, barefoot and looking like a drowned rat, my gaze coming to rest on the chaise lounge in the middle of the room, where three tall, thin, beautiful blondes with perfectly coiffed hair and flawless makeup and expensive lace lingerie pose around him. The boy I used to know. The boy I last saw four years ago, when we were eighteen.

  He's sure as hell not a boy anymore.

  He looks right in my eyes, and I swear he can see through me. Then he gives me that cocky, shit-sure of himself, nothing-ever-surprises-me grin, and I'm not certain whether the heat that rushes through me is anger or lust.

  Gaige O'Neal.

  Motorcycle racer, womanizer, asshole extraordinaire. Four years ago, he was the bane of my existence. And my best friend, my confidant, my first love.

  My stepbrother.

  Crap. This day just got a hell of a lot worse.

  CHAPTER TWO

  DELANEY

  "Well, now, as I live and breathe." Gaige's voice reverberates through the room. I've spent four years trying to get that sound out of my head. His voice is low and gravely, with a hint of a drawl, the product of spending his formative years at a boarding school in South Carolina -- the boarding school was prestigious and pretentious, but Gaige is anything but.

  "Gaige O'Neal." The words leave my mouth in one breath, heavy like an exhale. For a split second, seeing him there is almost enough to make everything else in here fade to black, as if I'm looking at him with tunnel vision. It's the same Gaige I used to know, with that arrogant smile that made me so angry and a body made for sin. Even back when we were teenagers.

  Now, though…hell, I don't know that I've ever seen anyone that looks as holy-shit-hot as Gaige does with his shirt off. When I last saw him, he had one tattoo on his shoulder, but now they snake around his forearms and biceps and cover his chest.

  His very broad, very defined chest.

  Gaige used to be hot, but he's transformed into something else entirely. I've made a concerted effort to forget Gaige O'Neal over the past four years, which is honestly pretty difficult when your stepbrother is a media darling, a sports figure the tabloids love. It involves going to extreme lengths: no looking at photo spreads in the sports magazines, shutting off the television interviews, ignoring the tabloid articles about Gaige and whoever his girl-of-the-moment is, shrugging and changing the subject when friends want to know what Gaige is like.

  What Gaige is like…The memory of my last night alone with him sticks in my head. It never leaves me. I've revisited it God knows how many times over the last few years, replaying it like some kind of movie.

  Gaige's lips are so close to mine that if I move even a millimeter, we'll be touching. And there's nothing more that I want on this green earth than to feel Gaige's lips against mine. I want him more than anything…and that is exactly why I can't have him.

  "Say it, Delaney."

  "We can't."

  "We can do whatever we want. Tell me you're mine."

  Returning to Dallas is not supposed to mean coming back to Gaige. Gaige is the last person I wanted to ever see again. Out of sight, out of mind, right? But now, standing here…it feels like no time at all has passed between us.

  "Delaney Marlowe." He stands up and walks over to me. Limps over to me, to be more accurate. He has a boot on his foot, one of those things you wear after you've had surgery. I wonder what the hell happened. Knowing Gaige, it'll be because he did something reckless on that motorcycle he races. He never was able to just race that thing, even when he was a teenager – it was always stunts, crazy shit, chasing the next adrenaline rush. And to Gaige, a rush wasn’t a rush unless it wa
s death-defying.

  I'm distracted from asking what happened by the fact that, aside from the boot, he's wearing not much else. Boxer briefs made of some kind of material that hugs his ass and his whole package, like it's a second skin. I force my eyes upward toward his face. It's hard not to look at…it. What he's packing. His Tool. That's what people call it. I used to call him the same thing, but for a different reason – because he frequently acted like such a dick.

  His Tool is apparently legendary. I never got the chance to see it. The night I was supposed to meet him – the night it was supposed to happen between us – never happened. What can I say? Things were complicated between us from the first moment we met.

  When Gaige gets to me, he pauses, standing so close I can hear his breath, and reaches out to push a tendril of wet hair away from my forehead.

  Oh my God. My hair. My clothes.

  My face flushes warm, and I know it must be bright red. For a split second, I'd forgotten I was standing here looking the way I look in the middle of this.

  And now Gaige is standing in front of me, looking the way he does – with a perfect body, being photographed next to equally perfect-looking models.

  I want to sink into the ground, melt into a puddle of humiliation.

  "You're wet," he says. His voice is low and deep and honeyed. The way the words roll off his tongue, long and languid, make them sound more sexual than if he'd told me to take off my panties right now. Electricity courses through my body, down to my fingertips, as the pad of his finger grazes my skin.