Secret: A Military Stepbrother Romance

by Irons, Aubrey

  I’m suddenly wondering if that’s grown too. Four months might not be long, but it’s going to be an eternity if we’re anything like we were back then. I barely survived four days of that girl before.

  Four months? Yikes.

  But whatever, I wouldn't have time for this shit even if she wasn’t going to be my stepsister. I’m way too busy with the restaurant. Fuckin’ ‘ell, I’ve been “chef” for three weeks and it already feels like forever. Three fuckin’ weeks since dad fired Martin and stuck me in his place. Martin of the two stars, and now me with zero of them.

  Hey, no pressure.

  Every day a fucking battle to make sure they respect that in there. A kitchen is a war zone; it’s a military regiment that needs the discipline of a damn army to run efficiently. I’m not talking a burger joint kitchen here either. Jolie is the fucking big leagues. This is 200 quid a head dinners, and that price demands the type of discipline from a kitchen that you rarely find outside of the Queen’s guard. And if you’re the type of utter idiot like me who wants to be at the top of that? Congratulations, you’re the general. Now, act like the toughest motherfucker in a room full of guys who willingly spend the majority of their waking hours in an insanely stressful environment involving sharp knives, open flame, and close quarters for a living.

  And I have to run that with an iron fist.

  So like I said, I’m a tad busy, and a touch high-strung at the moment, and hanging around Heathrow waiting for the girl I don’t want here anyways is pushing all my buttons.

  But whatever, at least I’ll be so busy with Jolie the next few months that I’ll probably never see her anyways.

  “Dad,” I glance at my watch, “I’m seriously pushing it on time. I’ve gotta get back. Look I’ll just take my own taxi or the Piccadilly train or something.”

  “Oy, cool it boy-o, they’ll be fine at the kitchen. We’re closed Mondays anyways.”

  “No, they won’t be, and I’ve still got shit to do, you know.”

  “Ah!” He says cheerily, completely ignoring me. He points to the gate flashing their plane’s call numbers. “Looks like they’re here!”

  Wonderful.

  He turns to me, “Besides, you ought to wait for Chloe anyways before you go back.”

  I groan, checking my watch and wondering how fast I can bribe a taxi driver to go on the M4 today; “Why?”

  The gate opens, and suddenly, there they are. I can see Mrs. Caulfield - Laura - beaming as she sees my dad. And he’s grinning too as he starts to move towards her.

  God, ‘Mrs. Caulfield’? Fuck, do I have to call her step-mum now?

  The throng of travelers and loved ones milling around the exit ramp begins to part, and then there she is.

  And she’s staring right at me.

  Our eyes meet across the crowd of people reuniting. All around people are hugging and kissing and shaking hands and generally glad to see each other. Which puts us distinctly out of place, because one look at each other and it’s clear neither of us is glad to see the other.

  But fuckin’ hell, any hope I had of her losing her hair or putting on eight-hundred pounds or something since the last time I saw goes fluttering away the second my eyes land on her.

  Shit.

  She’s wearing jeans, a long-sleeve t-shirt, and rain-boots, but she might as well be in a fuckin’ red-carpet gown. Or fuck, lingerie or something.

  Because, fuck me sideways, she’s even hotter than I remember. Those searing blue eyes like cold rain, that dark brown hair like a wave of silk down over her shoulder, that defiant way she’s holding her head up high and her shoulders back.

  That perfect rack and an ass that gets my cock hard right there standing in the middle of Heathrow Airport.

  This is going to be bloody problem.

  Whatever, I tell myself. You’ll barely see her. She can deal with this whole situation however she wants to.

  But suddenly, the last thing my dad said to me pings and resonates inside my head.

  “Dad,” I grab his coat before he takes another step through the crowd; “What do you mean I should ‘wait for her’.”

  I narrow my eyes at him as he turns back and throws me a quick questioning look. “Oh, bugger, didn’t I tell you?” He’s smiling away, as if none of this is at all blowing apart my whole world.

  “Tell me what?”

  They’re getting closer now as they push their way through the crowd; the smiling bride-to-be and her scowling, sexy as fuckin’ sin daughter. My dad shakes his head, “Must’ve slipped my mind with all this happening so fast. She’s a baker you know.”

  “So?”

  Oh, fuck.

  And instantly, I’m seeing where this is going, and I’m slowly shaking my head even before my dad can open his mouth.

  “I hired her. She’s your new pastry cook.”

  And then they’re right in front of us, and my dad and Mrs. Caulfield are laughing and hugging, and I’m just standing there, staring at Chloe with our eyes locked.

  Yeah, this is going to be a right bloody fuckin’ problem.

  Click here to check out Cockney!

  Heat

  Soldiers of Fortune: Book 1

  Aubrey Irons

  Five years ago, that cocky, egotistical a**hole played me like a fool and broke my heart.

  Hudson Banks; the dominant, tattooed, womanizing, ex-Marine-turned-billionaire who runs God-knows-what at my late father’s company.

  Oh, and he’s sexy as all f**k, and he damn well knows it.

  He’s like a gasoline fire; a scorchingly hot disaster, and if I’m not careful, I’m going to get burned.

  I’m on track to be the youngest New York State Senator ever elected; the bright, gutsy, good-girl media darling. Except my campaign funding just went dry, and it looks like the only solution is coming from the last person on Earth I’d ever want to take anything from. Oh, and it turns out bad-boy, tough-guy Hudson will be shadowing me 24/7 after he makes it clear that he’s in charge of “protecting the investment."”

  Yeah, just perfect; a reckless, irresistible d*ck like Hudson Banks is the last person I need being “in charge” of anything to do with me.

  Especially when I still can’t forget the taste of his lips or the feeling of that massive hardness I know he’s packing between his legs. It’s not fair that he’s even hotter now than he was back then. It’s not fair that those smoldering, arrogant eyes and that cocky, panty-melting grin still make me warm in places they shouldn’t. And it’s definitely not fair that five years later, I still can’t get him out of my head.

  So it looks like I’ve got two races on my hands: the one for election, and the one against the burning heat threatening to tear us both apart. But on the sprint to the finish line, what happens when the man who has everything comes up against the one thing he can’t have?

  Table of Contents:

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  “They’re fucking what?!” I almost drop the glass of champagne in my hand as I feel the floor practically drop out from beneath my feet. My campaign manager Donald’s face is impassive and steely - pretty much like it always is even in crisis meltdown situations like this - with his bushy grey
eyebrows furrowing slightly like they do when he’s got news for me neither of us want to hear.

  “They’re pulling out, Reagan; entirely.” I see him reach out of habit for the phantom pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket that hasn’t been there for five years; the frown in his eyebrows deepening.

  “All of it?”

  He sticks a pen between his lips instead of his old vice and glowers at me; “Every damn penny.”

  I swear fiercely under my breath, clenching my hand tight and digging my nails into my palm as the reality of the situation hits me like a wet blanket; “How fucked are we?”

  Donald tenses his face; he hates when I swear, especially in public and especially in public when there are cameras everywhere. “Lower your voice, Reagan” He mutters through the pen in his teeth, looking at me like I’m an ill-behaved child in that way that drives me crazy. In the movie version of my life, Donald is the kind and sagely grandfatherly type who guides me along a path of adorable metaphors and teary-eyed life lessons to victory. In reality, he’s cold, calculating, and robotically efficient at keeping me in line with his battle plans. But then again, kindly grandfatherly types doling out anachronisms like they were candy don’t win elections; robots do.

  “They were forty percent of our campaign.”

  I can feel the breath leave my lungs as the room spins around me; my lips moving soundlessly as my brain searches for the words to possible use here. This simply can’t be happening; not after we’ve worked so freaking hard to get to where we are.

  Donald glares at me as he furiously chews on his poor pen; “Maybe next time, you’ll stay on the damn speech I give you instead of going off on one of your ‘save the world’ tangents, Reagan. You know they’re going to jump down you throat for that kind of things because-” His phone beeps and he frowns, trailing off as he shakes his head and mutters at whatever’s just popped up, but I can pretty much take my pick of what he was going to say anyways: ‘Because I’m a girl,’ or ‘Because I’m the youngest person to ever run for the State Senate of New York,’ or my favorite, ‘Because I’m the daughter of the late William Archer; billionaire philanthropist-slash-arms-dealer, depending on who’s opinion you ask.’ To most people, I’m either the next great American Dream for politics, or a nut-job, which plays nicely to the split media opinion of eager-eyed media darling or poor little rich girl, depending on which new station you like to watch. I hang my head; running was one thing, but dropping out like this is going to be a news anchor joke for years.

  “So this is it then? We’re done, just like that?” I can hear my voice from outside my body, my ears ringing and my jaw clenching in that way Donald always tells me not to do in front of cameras because it makes me look aggressive. I look down at the trembling glass of champagne in my hand, suddenly wishing it was the size of a movie-theater cup.

  “What?” My campaign manager takes the mangled pen from his mouth and briefly wrinkles his face at it, as if just noticing how gross a habit it is. He looks up at me, a stony look on his face; “No of course not,” He snaps, a bit more condescendingly than I need right now; “We’ve been approached by another new donor who sees a lot of promise in our campaign.”

  I feel myself exhale for the first time in what seems like an hour and start to shake my head; “Well Jesus, Donald, you scared the living-“

  “Now, you aren’t going to like it, of course, but try to let go of personal baggage for once,” He interrupts me, his voice low as he glares at me; “Try to remember that this is about more than just you?”

  Instantly, I narrow my eyes as suddenly every one of my gut instincts start to tingle at the look on his face and the tone in his voice; “Donald-” I start to shake my head, my jaw clenching as I feel the anger and the heat rising in my cheeks; “No, absolutely not! It’s not even an option!”

  Even though we’re off in the corner of the big open gallery of the museum where we’ve been throwing the now seemingly-useless campaign fundraiser, people around us turn to stare at my outburst. Donald shushes me again as if I’m some child acting out; “It’s our only option, Reagan.” He huffs, “Look, we all get that you don’t want your Father’s company’s money, but it is the only move here.” Donald’s rolling his eyes at me in the obnoxiously patronizing way that makes my blood boil, and for the eight-hundredth time, I have to remind myself that he’s really good at this job, otherwise I’d have blown up in his face and told him where to stick it a month ago.

  “Now, there’s a man here from Archer Holdings to meet with you, and he’d like to talk with you-”

  “Ms. Archer, they need some shots with some of the museum trustees.” I’m still shaking my head furiously, my mouth open and closing like a fish out of water, when one of my staffers scurries over and starts to tug me by the arm; yanking me away from Donald before I can even come up with anything to say. I turn back to over my shoulder to yell something like ‘We’re not done talking about this,’ but they’re already pushing me in front of the wall of flashing lights and clicking cameras and back into the spotlight where I can’t look like I want so break something.

  *****

  By the time they’re done, my face is feeling sore from all the fake smiles, and my palms are slick from other people’s sweaty handshakes; the hazards of the campaign trail they never tell you about. I’m extricating myself from the stuffy museum board of directors and scanning the room for another glass of champagne when I hear it - his voice; the voice from my past and the voice I haven’t heard in five years; “Hey, Princess.”

  I turn and he’s just there, standing in the flesh right in front of me. I feel my breath catch in my throat as I suddenly look up into the bluest, most piercing eyes I’ve ever seen, and then I feel my pulse actually skip a beat as I fully grasp the man they’re attached to. He’s even more gorgeous than he was back then, in that unbelievable, magazine-model way. His dark hair is slicked back to one side, and beneath those stunning eyes is a cocky grin stretched across a strong, chiseled jaw, marked on one side by just the faintest white line of a scar across his clean-shaved chin. He’s the same infuriatingly hot dichotomy he was five years ago; the perfectly tailored tuxedo and gleaming silver watch on his wrist screaming money, but the teasing glimpses of tattoo ink creeping out from beneath his French cuff sleeves or the neck of his linen shirt. His lips part as he grins at me; I know those lips.

  Suddenly Donald is there, beaming at this stunningly good looking man as if he’s the one running for a Senate seat instead of me; “Ahh, good, you’ve met!”

  I’d almost want to laugh if my body wasn’t suddenly froze in time where I stand. Yeah, we’ve met. I complete tune Donald out as I lock eyes with the brooding and handsome man grinning that goddamn smug smile at me that hasn’t changed a bit in five fucking years. He might be a little bit older and a little bit more polished looking now, but suddenly my body is remembering exactly how I know Hudson Banks. I know how his body feels pressed against mine, how his hands feel on the skin at the small of my back, and how his lips taste. This time, we’re sipping champagne at a $5,000 a ticket political fundraising event, instead of moaning into each other’s mouths as he grinds that hardness into my thigh, making my whole body melt for him.

  It’s been five years since that night; five years since I was at my lowest - drunk, confused, and grieving. Five years since I completely embarrassed myself by dragging this man away from the crowds at my father’s wake and attacking him like some sort of hot mess, and five years since he pushed me away from him and suddenly walked out, leaving me utterly mortified and even worse than I was before.

  And in five Goddamn years, I haven’t been able to get him out of my head.

  Donald is smiling benignly at me as he fawns over the smugly handsome man grinning that cocky smirk at me; “As I was saying, Mr. Banks, as you may know, works for your father’s comp-“

  “We’ve met” I say it with an icy tone, trying to look everywhere else in the room but Hudson’s eyes; “And this isn’t happ
ening, Donald.” I shake my head, my jaw set as I grind my teeth together. I’m furious, and of course embarrassed like I was that night all over again, and all I want to do is walk away from this entire horrible exchange right now.

  “It is happening, Reagan.” Donald’s voice is firm and he shoots me a warning look; “This is happening or there is no campaign-“

  “Then fine, there’s no campaign. It’s been a pleasure working with you, Donald.” I spit out.

  “Well, nice to see you haven’t changed at all, Ray.” He says with a chuckle. He’s got that fucking smirk on his face, that cocky grin that I once found unbelievably attractive, and then I feel my face burn red as I realize I still do. He’s even more attractive now than he was back then; healthier, his eyes even sharper, those broad shoulders even stronger looking as they stretch the tuxedo just enough to show off. I’m remembering those shoulders now, and the way my hand felt hot against that hard, chiseled chest; his hands on my skin as I breathed and whimpered into his mouth.