Quid Pro Quo: A dark stepbrother romance

by Nenia Campbell

  “And that's why you always hated it here, isn't it? Because you hate being noticed.”

  Her mouth fell open in surprise. “What makes you think that?”

  “Because it's true.” Nicholas stooped to pick up the basket and put it in the cart, considering its contents while she tried to compose her face. “This doesn't look like much. In the restaurant you were prattling on about lentils and aguafaba. I thought you might want to cook.”

  “Aquafaba,” she said automatically, clutching the front of her sweatshirt. “No, I'm fine.”

  “Jay,” he said, gratified when she glanced up, attentive and wary. “I'm serious. Get whatever you need.”

  “Fine.” He saw her jaw clench as she looked at the shelves, instantly defiant. She yanked the zipper up to her throat. “I forgot juice. I'll be right back.”

  Nicholas watched her walk away. The ribbon in her hair fluttered in her wake.

  Amanda went by, glancing at him, and then at Jay, who didn't even notice her. She stared hard at Jay, eyes narrowed, before doing another take at him. Isn't that your sister? She mouthed.

  Nicholas stared at her grimly until she blushed and walked away.

  Hollybrook had a long memory as far as his family was concerned. His father had dumped a lot of money into this town and once the scandal had come to light, women began to question their husbands, and men began to question their loyalties. Jay had been the town golden girl who had refused to rally behind her family as they tried to close ranks, and he had been the reformed black sheep who had stepped up when his father died and his stepmother fell out of favor.

  Is this about revenge?

  It wasn't—not really. Not for the reasons she thought, anyway. She thought it was about his father, but it was all about her . . . and how she had peeled back his armor and exposed that raw part of his soul that he preferred to pretend didn't exist.

  No, he really didn't give a fuck about his father, but Jay's leaving had filled him with a silent, wasting fury: hot black fire that consumed whatever it touched, creating a barren void of sensation that had pushed him to dark extremes in an attempt to fill the emptiness she left behind.

  For a year, he had basked in the slow immolation of his own tenuous constraints; and then, as soon as he'd discovered his limits, he had gotten bored and disillusioned.

  No one else made him feel anything. Not the way she did.

  Nicholas glanced around them impatiently, reaching for his wallet again. As far as he knew, nobody knew what his relationship with Jay had really been like, either, so there was no need for them to stare so intensely. Maybe they were waiting to see if he was going to strangle her.

  “I like this brand,” said the cashier, holding up the oat milk when they were at the checkout. “It tastes almost like the real thing.”

  “Me too,” said Jay, gripping onto the edge of the counter like she was afraid of going under. “It's a little sweet, so you don't even need sugar. I just wish it didn't curdle when it gets hot.”

  The cashier hesitated. “Are you together or separate?”

  “Together,” said Nicholas, looking at Jay. Daring her to contradict him. She stared down at her bags, twisting her hair the way she did whenever she was nervous.

  “Together,” Jay echoed without enthusiasm as the cashier turned to her.

  You're mine, Jay Varens, he thought. This time, you're not getting away.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  2017

  ▪▫▪▫▪▫▪

  Jay threw herself into her work with the fiercely contained passion that cranked all of his internal dials to ten. She was the same way when she cooked; he had seen her prepping her meals, paying particular attention to her hands. Normally prone to trembling and shaking, Nicholas had never once seen her hands falter while she was wielding a knife.

  They hadn't trembled in those handcuffs, either.

  And the more she gave to him in bed, the more he craved. He hadn't been keeping count of the hours she spent with him, but he guessed it was close to thirty. Roughly 1% of the debt based on the value that he had arbitrarily assigned to her. At this rate, it would take her four years, which was double the average most couples spent together in a non-transactional relationship.

  No wonder everyone ends up single or divorced, he thought cynically.

  The rest of the week flew by in a whirlwind of meetings and presentations. There were days when his calendar filled up before ten. In the middle of the week, he had a business lunch with Arthur Hartwell, ostensibly to discuss the financial health of the company, but also an excuse for Arthur to write off lunches in Ridgeview on the company's dime. Arthur had grown up there and was nostalgic about his hometown in a way that bordered on fanatic.

  They met at a Southeast Asian fusion restaurant called Down Buloh, which was across the street from two unlikely neighbors: a lingerie shop and an ice cream parlor. Nicholas glanced at both with amusement before stepping through the doors, where he was greeted immediately by the sound of running water and harp music, both coming from a discreetly placed CD player.

  Arthur was already there, chatting with the hostess, and the two of them were seated in the back. Both of them ordered pineapple-fried rice as a side, but Nicholas ordered the chicken satay, while Arthur ordered the chili crab. It came in the shell, much to Arthur's bewilderment, and Nicholas watched with ill-concealed amusement as he began cracking it with the provided cutter.

  “Did you want to try some?” he asked. “It's not that spicy and I've ordered far too much.”

  “No, thank you. I think the crab might clash with the peanut sauce.”

  “I'll take the extras home with me then. Maybe the wife can turn it into stew.”

  Nicholas shrugged, possessing neither a wife nor cooking ability, and Arthur began sliding the shredded crab around on his plate like a guilty schoolchild.

  “Let's get down to brass tacks.” Arthur scooped up some rice with the crab. “The health of the company is very good right now. We have several million in the bank and about sixty-five percent of our current investment portfolio is profitable.”

  “And the other thirty-five?”

  “Can be written off. We don't get taxed on loss, remember. Just gains.”

  “Right.” Nicholas picked up a skewer and began sliding the pieces off with a fork. “What's our current ninety-day plan? I'm assuming we have one.”

  “I can give you our one-eighty-day plan. By next year, I'd actually like to see the company go international. We'll have to hire on a new team of global accountants, but I think it will be more lucrative in the long run. It's a big world out there, Nicholas. Especially in manufacturing.”

  “I'd want to see the projected costs of expansion before I commit to something that big. We wouldn't just be adding on to Accounting—we'd need to hire on an entire international team or create a new team and begin to fill it with existing employees who'd want to make that lateral move. And lawyers,” he finished grimly. “Lawyers well versed in international tax laws.”

  “There's always growing pains,” Arthur said, wiping his sauce-stained hands on a napkin. “I'll have Annica pull up our numbers from the last five years and create a graph. There was a big hiring wave three years ago, and I can run up those costs. We can do a cross-analysis.”

  Nicholas set the empty stick of bamboo on his plate and leaned back. The only thing more satisfying than a full meal was data-driven metrics. “Send me an email when you have the numbers and I'll have Jay block some time off. We can make another lunch out of it.”

  “I'll do that. As it happens, there's a new vegan place I've been wanting to try. Everything on the menu is made with avocados.” Arthur tossed down his napkin and flagged down the waiter for a take-out box. “How is your new assistant settling in? She seems nicer than the last one.”

  Nicholas, slipping his card to the waiter, was mildly surprised that Arthur even remembered he had an assistant, let alone a new one. But Arthur was like Jay that way; he didn't just rem
ember, he cared. “She is. She's fielding most of Acquisitions' potential leads and doing such a good job that Stacey seems to be planning on stealing her from me.”

  Arthur laughed. “Brave of her.”

  “That's one word for it.” The card returned with a plate of kuih seri muka, a trifle-like dessert made with glutinous rice and pandan custard. Nicholas ate one, enjoying the floral sweetness of it as he tucked his card back into his wallet. “I'd call it mutinous.”

  “Well, you know Stacey,” Arthur said in amusement. “She considers herself the captain of her own ship.”

  “A captain is nothing without her crew,” Nicholas said. “If she steals my assistant, I might take it upon myself to deny her request for a hiring budget.” Arthur laughed again, although he hadn't been joking. Smiling thinly, he slid the plate towards the other man. “Try it—it's good.”

  “You can have mine.” Arthur shrugged back into his coat. “At my age, I need to watch my sugar intake and I don't think I care much for desserts that are green. It's been a pleasure, by the way. One of these days, we should get together outside of work. I don't think you've ever met my wife.”

  “No, I haven't.” But he'd seen the picture on Arthur's desk and could imagine what she'd be like in person—loud, cheerful, unfiltered. Probably adequate in bed. Not that you could tell that from a picture, but Arthur was entirely too cheerful for a man enduring mediocre sex. “I'll see you at the office,” he said aloud. “I'm going to take a quick walk before driving back.”

  “I don't blame you,” Arthur said. “If I had your schedule, I'd run, too.”

  Nicholas took his time getting back into his blazer before strolling across the street to the lingerie shop he had spotted earlier. After firmly shrugging off the overly helpful salesgirl, he picked out a few things for Jay, crushing the silk and lace in his hands and imagining crushing her body to his while she was wearing them. The thought of feeling her respond to his touch through those thin wisps of nothing filled him with such raw desire that it felt like an ache.

  It was the same piercing agony he'd felt every time Jay looked right through him when they were young. She'd seen him—but not the way he'd wanted. Not until he'd made her look. He hadn't been able to touch her then, but now there were consequences for driving him crazy.

  He kept the bag in his trunk until dinner that evening, which he had ordered from the same Thai place as before. She looked everywhere but at him as she examined a piece of lilac-colored lace. It was one of the negligees and he saw the exact moment that she realized she was holding the front of the gown. Then she noticed him watching her and her brows furrowed as she hastily shoved the fabric back in the bag. “What am I supposed to do with these?”

  “Wear them,” he replied laconically, allowing himself a smile. “Or did you want help putting them on?”

  That made her face fire up like a kiln.

  Jay disappeared after that, taking the bag with her. She didn't come out of her room again for the rest of the evening. Nicholas let her hide, wondering if she had tried on any of the clothes. He didn't imagine that she would lounge around in dishabille, but there had been a brief look of wistfulness on her face as she'd handled the delicate fabric that made him suspect that she would end up yielding to her curiosity, if she hadn't already.

  That look got to him but he made himself wait.

  He was very good at waiting.

  ▪▫▪▫▪▫▪

  If one lesson had stuck with her from childhood, it was that gifts never came without strings.

  Nicholas had obviously gone to some trouble. The tags on everything had been removed but she knew from the feel of the fabric and the detail of the lacework that they were costly, and they were all in colors she liked, in textures that felt enticingly good against the skin.

  Jay had tried on one of the nightgowns, tempted by the beautiful skirt which consisted of elaborate panels of silk, mesh, and lace, with the embroidered flowers spiraling around the body stitched so delicately that it felt like one touch might cause them to melt like ice. It had seemed deceptively modest with the floating silk butterfly sleeves and empire waist, but most of the bodice was open mesh covered by only a few strategically placed spirals of flowery lace.

  It wasn't hard to imagine what he might do to her while she was wearing this. Not when the heat of his mouth flickering against her like a torch was such a recent memory. Not when he stared at her the way he did. That's probably why he bought them. She slid her hand over the ice-blue silk, thin enough that she could feel the heat of her own hand. Because he likes control.

  But that didn't feel right, either. Control was part of it, yes, but it wasn't just about control. If Nicholas had only wanted to make her feel powerless, there were other things he could have done to her. She fingered the stitching on the roses, caught herself, and looked away.

  She was intensely aware of him over the next few days. He seemed to be watching her more closely than usual, almost as if he were waiting for something. Even at work, she would look up to find herself the subject of his study; it was a heavy, ponderous look, with a dark edge that put a catch in her breathing.

  While taking notes during his meetings, she had seen his prospective clients fall to pieces under that unrelenting stare. One of them had walked in with a hastily drawn-up contract that would have guaranteed only .5% of profits for an investment of one million dollars. Nicholas had been furious and after sliding the unsigned and now-marked up contract back across the table, had, over the course of an hour, bumped the investment fee up to a grim 2.5% share of the profits on his holdings. The man had walked out looking like he'd been hit by a speeding train.

  And Nicholas had just sat there afterwards continuing to take notes, seemingly unaffected by the victory. He had been the exact same with way at her in the diner, and she had thought he'd been posturing then, but the other CEO was no longer around to see him flaunt his indifference.

  Unless he's posturing for me.

  Glancing at the closed door, Jay said, “Isn't that good for you? The two-percent?”

  He glanced briefly at her, before looking back at his screen. That look of icy menace had faded but his handsome features hadn't quite thawed. “Three percent would have been better and I probably could have pushed him up to four. He knew he was fucked. Make sure you send me the notes from today's meeting, along with a scanned copy of the contract.”

  And then he had closed his computer, holding the door for her as they both walked out.

  It had been a strange and chilling insight into his mind that should have sent her running and she wasn't sure why he was affecting her this way, when he should have been so easy to despise.

  That Friday evening they'd had Chinese takeout and an Alsatian wine. She had let him pour her a small glass to go with her mixed vegetables and sesame tofu, which had made her brain feel syrupy and calm. Even when he'd suggested that she might wear her new clothes, she had felt only a flicker of panic. “Whatever you want,” she said, because it seemed to annoy him, and because she was reckless and confused, and because the wine seemed to loosen her tongue.

  She had been about to pour herself a second glass, but Nicholas had moved the bottle out of reach. “I think you're at your limit, Jay,” he said, filling his own instead, while she glared at him. Like you care about limits. “Don't look at me like that. I could drink you under an entire warehouse filled with tables and you know it.”

  That was probably true. His father had always seemed to have a drink in his hand and she had never seen Nicholas drunk. He wouldn't want to surrender control. He was always so tightly contained, and had been even as a boy. The last time she'd seen him really lose it—

  He made you cry.

  Jay bit her lip, not wanting to remember. Shooting another wary glance at him, she gathered her dishes to place them in the dishwasher before going to her room.

  Maybe everyone here thought he was a wunderkind, but she knew what he was like.

  Once dressed, she sli
pped into her robe, knotting the sash firmly in place, and got into bed.

  It was the tug at her midsection that woke her. The bow at her waist was undone and she could smell that sharp citrus scent. “Nick?” she asked, still sleepy, but wary now, as well. He was lying next to her, leaning on one arm. The other was on her face, turning her towards him.

  “I let you sleep,” he said, running his hand down her cheek. “You were out like a light.”

  While you watched? “What . . .” She cleared her throat, feeling shy and nervous and hating herself a little for getting so flustered. “Um. What time is it?”

  He kissed her mouth in response; he tasted minty, which clashed with the sweetness of the wine still clinging to her tongue. The bed shook as he rolled over her and his hands smoothed possessively over her bared collarbone as he pushed open her robe.

  “Midnight.” She felt him trace along the delicate straps with a finger, following the lines of her neck and shoulders, before trailing down her ribs. It was as if his touch lifted trails of rime in his wake and she was too exhausted to resist the intoxicating chill that made her body burn even as it left her feeling cold and vanquished inside. “I was waiting for you, little bird.”

  Waiting for her. She heard him sigh and then he followed the same path he'd traced before, this time with his mouth, kissing each of her breasts, before sucking her nipples into his mouth and drawing hard through the cloth. She inhaled as he bit her very gently, before moving down her belly, tracing the outline of her sex with his tongue.

  “I don't understand you,” she blurted, ashamed at how breathless it sounded.

  “I'm hard to read.” Nicholas added pressure as he kissed her and her hips bucked against his face. “Do you spend a lot of time trying to figure me out?”

  “No,” she said, as the sleeves of her robe pooled at her elbows.

  “No, what?”

  Jay cried out as his mouth became less gentle. “No, Daddy.”