Stepbrother: Impossible Love

by Victoria Villeneuve

  Stepbrother: Impossible Love

  A romance novel by Victoria Villeneuve

  Stepbrother: impossible Love

  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

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  About the Author

  Also by Victoria Villeneuve

  Falling for the Billionaire

  The Billionaire Brothers

  The Billionaire’s Command

  Running from the Billionaire

  Her English Billionaire

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  Chapter One

  I sighed as I looked down at the quickly vanishing landscape below me. It was my home, my city. Manhattan. The Big Apple. New York. The city so nice, they named it twice. For the first nineteen years of my life, it was my home. I loved walking the streets, I loved the hustle and bustle of it, and I loved the energy it generated. Somehow, I knew London just wasn’t going to be the same.

  I could have stayed, of course. After all, I was an adult. Unfortunately for me, my mother wasn’t, despite being twenty years older than me. And seeing as she was the only family I had – apart from an aunt in Oregon that I hadn’t seen or spoken to since I was five – I agreed when she asked me to move to England with her.

  At the same time, it wasn’t entirely family based. Sure, my mother was a needy hypochondriac who had depended on me her entire life, and I would have felt bad if I’d wiped my hands of her and left her as a problem for her new husband. But when said new husband was a billionaire businessman with titles that can be traced back to William the Conqueror in his name, and he promised to get me into Oxford, well, that tipped the scales towards the Old Country just a little bit.

  That’s how I ended up on this plane, sipping champagne from my luxury seat in first class, my mother across the aisle from me fussing with her seatbelt, looking down at the city that raised me and wondering if I hadn’t just made a huge mistake.

  Oh well. If it doesn’t work out and I hate England, a degree from Oxford will probably get me a pretty good job if I come back stateside I decided, and leaned back, listening to the low drone of the engines outside the window as the 747 whisked us over the Atlantic Ocean.

  It had been such a whirlwind, but that really was my mother’s life in one sentence. I leaned back in my seat, trying not to think about how this ticket almost certainly cost more than the money I made by being a waitress part time at a diner downtown while finishing up high school.

  According to her (and I never really could know if she was telling the truth), my mother was an up-and-coming Broadway actress, who had gotten a few minor roles here and there, and was slowly crawling her way up the pecking order, waiting for her big break. She was about to make the big time by sleeping with the producer of a new show that was going to make millions, until it turned out he got her pregnant.

  Cast away by the producer – and by the entire industry – when she had me, my mother made ends meet working odd jobs and by blackmailing the producer in question. He paid her enough to live off, and she didn’t go public with the fact that he had a child out there that wasn’t birthed by his wife of 25 years. He stopped paying her when he found out she re-married, and as far as I know my mother has never contacted him again.

  To this day my mother won’t tell me who my father is, and to be honest, I don’t really care. I was never really into showbiz anyway. I preferred the classics, which was why I figured English Literature was the perfect degree to go for at Oxford. Cliché, I know. Everyone gets an arts degree. Well, I don’t care. Deal with it, universe. I was only going to get the chance to learn from the best once, and I planned on studying something I enjoyed.

  That said, I also decided to do a minor in journalism, as I figured that would help me get a job when I graduated and came back to New York City.

  Anyway, my mother quickly decided that I needed a father figure, and that she needed a stabilizing figure in her life, and when I was two she married for the first time, a stock broker from Brooklyn. That marriage lasted an entire three years before they got divorced, and I don’t even remember the man’s name.

  This new husband, number five, John Andrew Alcott the 4th, Baron of Winchester, was by far the richest. My mother met him at one of those charity dinners she still managed to somehow get herself invited to – no doubt by namedropping husband number three, who is now a New York City councillor – and instantly had him wrapped around her little finger.

  For all the shit I gave my mom for not exactly being the best mother, or the most sane person, I had to admit she was drop dead gorgeous, and I absolutely wished every single day that I’d gotten her genes instead of my mystery father’s.

  Whereas she was a blonde, 5’8” size zero, my chestnut hair and full figured frame (“if only you’d work on your diet, you could lose those curves,” my mom always said when she saw me in my underwear) meant most people never considered us to be mother and daughter.

  “Sweetie, I’m feeling a little bit nauseous, I think I’m going to try having a nap. I’ve already taken an Ambien. Can you wake me up when they start dinner service?”

  “Sure, mom. No problem,” I told her with a small smile. Of course she felt like she was going to puke, but still wanted dinner. That sounded legit.

  I took out a book I’d bought at the airport: the latest James Patterson thriller. Hey, just because I loved the classics didn’t mean I wasn’t a guilty pleasure here and there. And James Patterson was definitely my vice.

  Throwing myself into the world of the Women’s Murder Club in San Francisco, I let my worries about the move fall to the back of my mind as I was whisked to another continent.

  Chapter Two

  When we finally landed at Heathrow, six hours later, a man was ready and waiting for us with a placard saying “Mary and Julianne Reeves”. I was borderline exhausted. The plane trip had lasted forever, and now it was early in the morning in England, but late at night back home in New York. I was ready for bed, and followed in a daze, my two suitcases on a trolley carried by the driver, as he led us out of the terminal and into the waiting Mercedes sedan.

  As soon as I sat down in the plush leather seat of the car, I fell asleep. I have no memory of us even driving outside the airport, and only woke up an hour later when my mother shook me awake.

  “Julianne, we’re almost there,” she whispered. I looked out the window to see the view of the perfect quintessential English town. Wendover was home of the Alcott family estate, which I was told was remarkable. Nerves started to fill my stomach. This was really happening. I was going to meet the man my mother was going to marry, I was going to live in his home here in England. This was definitely going to be something new, and I hoped I liked it. I didn’t want my life to be like on Downton Abbey, as much as I loved the show.

  We continued d
riving outside of town, and I had to admit, the rolling hills of the countryside were gorgeous. I saw a few horseback riders and even wondered if maybe that was something I would be able to do. At least we weren’t too far from London, either. I’d looked up the train timetable, and it would only take an hour to get into the city.

  The sedan finally turned into a long driveway, and my jaw dropped to the floor.

  Towering before us was the home I was going to live in. Looking exactly like something out of Pride and Prejudice, the Alcott estate building was a long, stone rectangular building, with huge windows, ivy crawling up the grey stonework and mahogany accents in certain areas that gave the house a bit of a modern touch. The driveway circled around to the front of the house, like you see at luxury hotels, with a fancy fountain featuring three dancing dolphins spitting water out as a feature in the middle of the driveway.

  The perfectly manicured lawn seemed to stretch out for miles, and I think for the first time I really realized just how much money my mother’s fiancée really had.

  As if by magic, a woman suddenly came bustling out from the mahogany front door that was at least twice as high as she was.

  I stepped out of the car in shock, while my mother immediately turned into the charming woman who snagged the guy who owned this place as her future husband.

  “Hello, you must be Ms. Reeves,” the woman announced as our driver wordlessly went to the back of the car to fetch our suitcases. “I’m Anita, the head of the household.”

  The head of the household? Seriously? What is this, the 1800s? I asked myself as I looked at the plump woman’s cherubically happy face and decided she was probably quite nice, and almost certainly had children of her own.

  “Thank you Anita, I’m Mary and this is my daughter, Julianne.”

  “Ms. Julianne, welcome,” Anita greeted me.

  “Just Julianne is fine, please,” I replied with a smile, and my mother stared daggers at me. Apparently I’d already committed some kind of social faux-pas in her head.

  “Well ladies, if you’ll just follow me, Michael will take your suitcases to your rooms, and I’ll give you a tour of the premises.”

  Glancing at Michael and wondering if I shouldn’t offer to help with the suitcases, I quickly realized that Anita and my mother had already gone into the house, and I hurried in after them.

  As soon as I walked into the foyer, my jaw dropped. This was just too much. While the outside screamed “old money”, the home’s interior screamed “new money”. First of all, what kind of house has an actual foyer? When I was growing up, Regina Stuart, the local rich girl, lived in a six bedroom apartment, and even they only had a bit of an entrance hall in their place.

  The foyer alone was bigger than my mother’s apartment back in New York which we shared. With a grand chandelier hanging from the ceiling and a marble staircase lined with plush carpet leading up to God-knows what kind of rooms, furniture that obviously cost more than my whole degree was going to and Corinthian columns here and there, I was just shocked.

  I knew the other half lived well, but this was just, well, straight out of a Disney movie or something.

  I followed as Anita led us through room after room of luxury and opulence. A huge games room with a full size pool table in the middle. A home theatre with thirty seats and a fifty foot projector screen. A library with books from top to bottom. We hadn’t even gotten to the bedrooms yet and I already knew I was never going to be able to find my way back to the front of the house without help.

  “Do you happen to have a map?” I asked Anita when she took us past John Alcott’s study and into the home gym area.

  She laughed at my joke. “I don’t, as much as it does seem daunting at first, you get used to the layout pretty quickly. I can draw you one in the meantime, if you really want. But basically, go right from the entrance hall and you reach all of the leisure rooms. Go left and you’ll find the staff quarters, the kitchens, that sort of thing. Up and to the right are Mr. and the future Mrs. Alcott’s rooms, and up and to the left are the guest rooms, of which yours is one.

  “I suppose I can remember that,” I replied, and hoped I did.

  Eventually Anita left me in the library while she went to go and show my mother her rooms, with the promise of coming back to get me to show me mine when she was finished.

  I wasn’t really sure if I was supposed to touch any of the books on the shelf. After all, they all looked horrendously expensive. Was that a first edition Voltaire I saw on one of the shelves? I was pretty sure it was.

  Finally, I got bored enough that I decided I didn’t really care. I looked for the newest book, for something that might have cost less than $100, and gingerly took the copy of Wuthering Heights off the shelf.

  As I opened the cover it practically heard the cover creaking. I cringed inwardly, and considered putting the book back, but I had already gone this far.

  Instead, I just kept an ear out for footsteps and started reading. I had never read anything by Emily Brontë, and found myself quickly caught up in her addictive writing style. So much so that I never heard the footsteps coming to the room, or the door opening.

  “Excuse me, you must be Julianne,” I heard a man’s voice say from the doorway, and I let out a squeal and dropped the book.

  “Oh my God,” I cried out, quickly picking up the book. The man quickly came over and helped me with it, before placing the cover back in my hands.

  I looked up at him. He was in his early fifties, probably, with a thinning head of brown hair that was losing its battle with the grey taking over. Still, I guessed that back in the day he would have been quite a good looking man. With his obviously expensive suit, I figured I knew who I was talking to.

  “You must be Mr. Alcott. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to drop the book. Or really take it off the shelf. I wasn’t going to, but then I couldn’t resist, and…”

  I was rambling, and I knew it, and John Alcott smiled kindly and raised his hand.

  “Books are meant to be read, Julianne. And yes, I am John Alcott. Please, call me John. It’s wonderful to finally meet you.”

  “You too, John,” I replied, finally able to smile a bit myself. I had expected the owner of a place like this to be draconian, the stiff upper lip type, but John didn’t seem to be that way at all.

  Just then Anita came into the doorway.

  “Mr Alcott!” she exclaimed. “I wasn’t expecting you for hours, I apologize for not being at the door.”

  “Not to worry Anita. The meeting in town was cancelled, so I don’t have to be at the Gherkin until two. I thought I would come say hello to my fiancée and her daughter, and help them settle in.”

  “Well Ms. Reeves is in your room at the moment, being helped to unpack her things by Gina. I was about to take the younger Ms. Reeves to see to her room now.”

  “Alright, well I’ll go see Mary, and leave Julianne here in your hands. Take that book with you, Julianne, and enjoy it. Every book in this library is at your disposal.”

  “Thank you John,” I replied as I left with Anita. I was so relieved that Mr. Alcott was just a normal person, and that I hadn’t been sent to the Tower of London for reading that book or anything like that.

  Anita led me back down the giant string of hallways and rooms, and eventually we were back in the main hall. This time she led me up the stairs, and I couldn’t help but wonder if I could slide down the railing like a princess one day. When we got to the top landing, Anita led me to the left down a hallway leading to a series of rooms.

  “Mr. Alcott Jr is arriving tonight, and will be staying in the room next to yours, as it is where he grew up, and where he stays whenever he is around,” Anita told me, indicating a closed door to my right. We went slightly further down the hall to the next door, which Anita opened for me, then held for me as I entered in front of her.

  I was going to have to get plastic surgery to fix my jaw if this kept up. These were guest quarters?

  The light poured in from a
bay window covered in the most comfortable cushions I’d ever seen. The pastel green shade of paint on the wall was absolutely gorgeous, and my eye was immediately drawn to the King size bed that looked like I needed a ladder just to get onto it. My suitcases lay off to one side, near a nightstand with a phone on it. Against the near wall was a desk and chair, perfect for studying.

  The door to the walk-in closet on the other side of the room was open, and I could instantly tell it was bigger than the kitchen was at our old place.

  But even more impressive was the en-suite. I walked on the marble-tiled floors and looked at the Jacuzzi tub, the huge shower with a rainwater head, the double sinks and toilet. It was huge! And gorgeous.

  “Wow,” was the only thing I could say.

  “If you need anything, at any time, just press number 1 on the phone on the nightstand and someone will come see to your needs,” Anita told me kindly.

  “This is insane. Who lives like this?” I whispered, almost to myself.

  “Mr. Alcott does. You’re very lucky,” Anita told me with a smile. She seemed to be enjoying my shock.

  “Yes. Yes, that I am. Wow.”

  I was never really the type to be in love with material things, but I’m not going to lie, I was already in love with this place.

  “I’ll leave you to your things, Gina will come over to help you unpack when she’s finished with your mother’s things.”

  “Oh, that’s ok Anita, thanks. I can unpack myself,” I told her with a smile.

  “Alright, up to you. Gina will be bringing by a TV however, and in the next couple days it will be hooked up with satellite so you’ll have a number of channels to choose from.”

  “Thanks so much, Anita,” I told her.

  “Not a problem. Be ready for dinner at seven. Someone will come and get you to show you to the dining room. If you want anything to eat before then, don’t hesitate to use the phone and ask.”

  “Ok, I will, thanks!”

  With that, Anita left, and I stood in the middle of the room, looking around, still not believing that this was real life. This was my life.