Stepbrother’s Secret

by Kane, Jessa

  Stepbrother’s Secret

  Jessa Kane

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Epilogue

  1

  Tristan

  A headache stirs behind my eyes.

  I’m impatient.

  I’m in the midst of my reelection campaign for the Connecticut governor’s seat. There is definitely no time for a secret side trip to the wilds of North Carolina to collect a wayward child.

  I stare across the limousine to where my father, Elton, and my stepmother, Rebecca, clutch hands tightly on the seat, completely enamored with one another, but visibly nervous over reaching our destination. Night has fallen and the sun is hidden behind the ancient, gnarled trees that line the dirt road on which we’re traveling. Toward the backwoods marshland where my stepsister, whom I’ve never met, is apparently fending for herself.

  “I had no idea my ex-husband was dead,” Rebecca whispers into the tense silence. “You believe me, don’t you, Tristan? I never would have left my own daughter down here alone. I would have come sooner…”

  My nod is tight. The explanation hardly matters.

  Only a solution.

  Which is why we’ve come to bring the child to Connecticut.

  My father and Rebecca met on vacation and fell in love—although, I’m inclined to believe “love” is an exaggeration, no matter who it is being applied to. An excuse people make when they’re needy for companionship.

  Whether or not my father and Rebecca truly love each other is irrelevant, though. For the past two years, my new stepmother has been living in Hartford, Connecticut. Her daughter has been down here in North Carolina with her father. Happy to remain near her friends and the home where she grew up. Or so we assumed. Only yesterday did Rebecca find out her ex-husband had passed away a year prior, meaning the child has been down here, living by herself, without a dime or parental guidance.

  Everything that happens in or around my family has a direct effect on my political career. I’m at the end of my first term as the governor of Connecticut and on my way to being reelected. It wouldn’t look good if someone connected to me was neglecting their only daughter, leaving them to starve penniless in some swamp. And so here we are to bring my stepsister to civilization.

  I really don’t have time for this.

  The limousine stops moving and I glance up from my phone, only slightly curious about where the girl has been living.

  Jesus.

  It’s an isolated shack—and it’s literally falling down.

  There is a twirling line of smoke rising from the roof, chickens pecking around outside. Laundry dries on the line. My eyes linger momentarily on the row of thin, ripped panties, before I swiftly look away. “Let’s move fast,” I say. “I need to be back in Hartford by morning.”

  My father nods in agreement, as he should. He’s my campaign manager.

  There is some tension between us right now. I’m pissed that he allowed this situation to happen right under his nose. A wrench in the engine that could hurt my chances at reelection. Meanwhile, he’s caught between defending his wife and being contrite. But we move on autopilot now, synced, ready to do damage control.

  The three of us exit the limousine, Rebecca leading the way up the rotted porch, toward the front door of the shack. Is this where she lived in the early days of her marriage? Christ. If so, she’s definitely leveled up with my father’s estate overlooking the golf course in Hartford. A stiff wind could knock this place to the ground.

  Rebecca knocks, but there is no answer.

  She tries the door and finds it unlocked, walking inside, calling her daughter’s name.

  “Cate? Cate, are you here?”

  My father follows his wife into the home.

  I’m about to as well…when I hear a laugh.

  It’s a warm, bright sound. So full and ethereal, I can’t tell which direction it’s coming from. It’s part of the breeze, threaded in seamlessly, stirring the low hanging tree branches that scrape the roof of the shack.

  For some reason, that unbridled laugh tugs at my pulse.

  A pulse that seldom rises for any reason. There is no question a reporter can spew at me that I don’t know how to answer. There is no crisis that can’t be dealt with. At thirty, I’m the youngest sitting governor in the country—and the hardest to rile. Or catch off guard.

  There is no reason a girl’s laughter should have me swallowing so heavily, the lump in my throat barely makes it past my knotted tie.

  Frowning, I reverse my steps down the porch, following the sound. Compelled to do so, my pulse ticking in my neck. It’s coming from behind the house, somewhere among the grove of crowded trees. Moonlight reaches in through the branches, guiding my way along the gravel trail, the laughter growing louder. Closer. Until I reach a clearing.

  Even before I step out into the moonlit glen, I have the sensation of free falling. Pressure gathers in my chest, the wind tunneling around me, mouth dry. All I can hear is that laugh. That sweet, girlish melody. It’s so free. Unpracticed. I’ve never heard anything like it.

  I shake my head. The endless working hours I’ve been keeping must be taking their toll. Refusing to hesitate another second, I step into the clearing and…

  There she is.

  My knees have never weakened a moment in my life, but I truly come close to kneeling involuntarily now. Dropping down to my knees, right there in the tall, swaying grass. Aren’t men supposed to kneel in the presence of an angel, anyway?

  I have to be dreaming.

  The beauty in front of me is simply not real.

  A barefoot girl in a white nightgown sits on a tire swing, flying back and forth over the grass, her long blonde hair rippling behind her in the wind. She’s surrounded by a parade of fireflies. They seem drawn to her, dancing around her in praise. The moon kisses her face, illuminating the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen—and I’m not even close enough to determine their color. Every part of her is beautiful. And that innocent, tinkling laugh. It’s sweeping the glade and piercing me right in the throat.

  This girl…is my stepsister?

  Cate.

  I must say her name out loud, because her head turns in my direction, her big eyes turning to saucers. She clings tighter to the rope attached to the tire swing, her thighs wrapping around it—and that slight movement makes my cock hard as fuck. Before I can stop it, I’m imagining those lithe thighs around my waist, her nightgown bunched in my hands.

  Not good. This is not good at all.

  I don’t even recall asking Rebecca her daughter’s age.

  Not that the specific number matters. Cate is related to me by marriage.

  My body doesn’t seem to care, though, and I’m walking toward her before I can stop myself. I have no choice but to get closer and memorize every single thing about her. Devour information about her. Eat it whole.

  “Who’re you, mister?” Cate gasps in a southern accent thick as oil, holding tighter to the swing. “You come here in that fancy suit to be takin’ my house? For the bank?”

  “No.” When I’m within ten yards, I notice her blonde hair is tangled. There is dirt caked to her feet, her calves. But it’s not enough to detract from the smooth, tan skin beneath. Not enough to make her any less beautiful. God, this sweet girl has been out here all alone? Vulnerable to men and animals and inclement weather? How did she survive? How dare she be neglected like this. Never again. “I’m Tristan,” I rasp. “Your stepbrother.”

  Her nose wrinkles. “
Don’t got a stepbrother.”

  Tutoring. She’s going to need a lot of it. I’ll arrange it as soon as we’re back in Hartford.

  Even as my solution-driven mind makes those necessary plans, however, something inside me rebels over the idea of changing a single thing about her. She’s an uncut diamond. Wild and unspoiled. And yet, if she’s going to be in the ruthless, unforgiving political spotlight, she’ll need to be taught how to speak correctly. She’ll need to be domesticated.

  Is that what you really want?

  “My father married your mother. Rebecca. We’ve come to bring you home.”

  “We?” Cate breathes, looking beyond my shoulder. “My mama is here?”

  Something sharp digs into my throat. “Yes.” I step forward. “Let me help you down from there. I’ll bring you to see her.”

  Fuck me. Up close, she’s a…filthy, unkempt little thing. Yes. But her beauty, inner and outer, shines through so brightly, it kicks up an ache in my limbs, my chest. Her eyes are wide and blue, fathomless. Dangerous. She’s already extremely dangerous to my sanity. The rope of the swing is tucked in between her young thighs, pressing tightly to her pussy—and I cannot think about my stepsister’s pussy. Or how she’s wearing no panties. Or bra. The material of the nightgown is thin enough to make that very plain.

  She’s hesitant to let me help her down off the swing.

  Hell, she should be.

  My dick is as stiff as iron, pulsing in my briefs. Being near her is driving me wild. Making me hotter than I’ve ever been in my life. What will I do once my hands are on her?

  Hesitantly, lip caught between her teeth, she unwraps her fingers from around the rope, placing her hands on my shoulders. “Where are y’all going to bring me?”

  “Connecticut,” I manage, reaching up to capture her slim waist. “Hartford.”

  “Oh.”

  I lift her off the swing, but I don’t set her down.

  I know I should, but when her naked thighs drag down on either side of my hips, I hold her there, one of my forearms hooking beneath her ass almost desperately. Needing her to stay right there. I’m not a man who embraces. I do firm handshakes. But my arms band around her automatically, slowly, slowly, flattening her against my chest and cautiously, Cate wraps around me, the way she was wrapped around the swing, her bare feet dangling near my knees.

  Jesus Christ.

  It’s pure heaven.

  It’s pure sin.

  My hand strokes down over Cate’s hair and she softens, laying her head on my shoulder. “I’m going to take good care of you now,” I vow, rocking her gently. “You’re safe.”

  “Cate! Cate!’” Rebecca’s calling voice cuts through the night, through the moment I’ve woven against my better judgment, and I have no choice but to set my stepsister down, my arms missing the weight of her immediately.

  What the hell are you thinking?

  Laughing again, Cate streaks across the glen and into her mother’s arms.

  I’m so absorbed by the girl and her bubbly happiness, I almost don’t notice my father watching me through the dense copse of trees. How long has he been standing there?

  A minute later, I have my answer.

  He steps past Rebecca and Cate, stopping in front of me where I still stand by the tire swing. “You think a neglected, backwoods stepsister would have caused a political scandal?” My father’s voice is stern. It’s his campaign manager tone. “Just imagine what would happen if you got caught fucking her.”

  I grind my jaw. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  “You sure about that?” He glances back at the tearful reunion taking place. “Maybe we should keep the girl in North Carolina. You know the press watches you like a hawk, Tristan. If she’s going to be a temptation, Rebecca can travel back and forth—”

  “Listen to yourself. I’m not a fucking animal. And I’m not going to do something to jeopardize my reelection,” I growl. “She’s coming to Connecticut.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Am I?

  Yes.

  Of course I’m sure. I’m not going to sleep with my goddamn stepsister.

  Not only is it wrong. Forbidden, based solely on our relationship through marriage. Not only is it sick, considering she’s probably too young. But my father is right about the press constantly hounding me. They’ve decided my age and the way I look makes me interesting. I’m an eligible bachelor to them, instead of a serious politician, but this reelection and the progress I’ve made is slowly changing that. Whatever feelings I have already developed for Cate need to be suppressed. Fast.

  Before I do something that could ruin me.

  Easier said than done.

  2

  Cate

  I’ve never been on an airplane before.

  I’ve especially never been on a private one with leather seats softer than butter. Clean carpeting and little curtains covering the windows. I’m really glad my mother suggested I take a shower and change before we left for the airfield because I would have felt terrible traipsing mud all over the place. Even in my best blue dress, I feel out of place in such luxury.

  Now, I sit on a leather bench across from my stepbrother, Tristan, ankles crossed together, my hands wringing in my lap.

  Lord in heaven, I’ve never seen anything like him.

  His green eyes are the sharpest, most intelligent ones I’ve ever seen. Mama said he’s a politician. An important one who might even be president one day. I can believe it. He looks at me like he’s trying to read every single thought in my head. Well thank goodness he can’t. My thoughts would probably sound incredibly simple or boring to a man like him. He must know every fact and figure in the whole world.

  I don’t have a television or anything, but back when daddy was still alive, he used to bring back the Sunday paper from the store. There were always politicians’ pictures in black and white, but I don’t remember a single one of them looking like Tristan. No sir.

  He’s beautiful.

  Like a movie star or something.

  His hair is the color of hickory tree bark after it rains. His eyes remind me of my beloved glen, the one that is now miles below us. A speck in the distance. And since Tristan is trying to read my mind, I try really hard not to think about how he held me in that glen, so close to his big, hard body, his skin smelling of fine cologne. I shouldn’t be hoping he hugs me like that again, should I? I don’t have a lot of experience with family or even people, in general, but I know kin don’t get so close they can feel each other’s breath on their necks.

  The memory causes an alarming tingle between my thighs and I quickly cross my legs, watching as Tristan’s green eyes darken to another shade.

  “We should discuss plans,” he says in that Yankee accent. “For Cate.”

  Mama, who is sitting to my right, perks up. “Yes, that’s a great idea, Tristan. Obviously, she’s going to live with your father and I. At least at the beginning—”

  “She’ll have her own place,” Tristan interrupts, reaching toward a sideboard laden with crystal decanters, pouring himself a glass of something amber colored and resting it on his knee. “I’ve already reached out to a realtor. The apartment is being prepared as we speak”

  “I…oh,” sputters Mama, trading a glance with her new husband. “May I ask why she’s going to stay somewhere else?”

  “The press watches your home closely, as well as mine. I don’t want them speculating on Cate or hounding her.” Tristan’s jaw ticks as he discusses me. “Not until she’s better prepared.”

  “Prepared for what?” I ask.

  Tristan’s father, Elton…who I guess is my new stepdaddy, answers. “The press can be a little relentless, especially when it comes to Tristan. He’s right to put you somewhere neutral until you know how to deal with aggressive reporters. They’ll no doubt be quite interested in you.”

  That seems to annoy Tristan, his eyes darkening another degree. “Exactly how much schooling do you hav
e, Cate?”

  My face heats with embarrassment and I can’t help but squirm on the seat. I’ve never been humiliated by my lack of education. I know how to read and count money and fend for myself. Aren’t those the most important skills one can have? But with my gorgeous, sophisticated stepbrother questioning me, I suddenly wish I could curl into a ball. “Um…just about up through the middle of high school, sir. That’s when Daddy got to feeling bad.”

  To my relief, Tristan only nods once, no pity or judgment in his expression.

  He’s merely taking in information, thoughts taking wing in his mind. Solutions, too, I bet. Lord, he’s so smart. I wish I could be just like him.

  I’m distracted from mooning over my stepbrother—which I shouldn’t be doing anyway—when my mother sniffles into a tissue, tears brimming in eyes the same color as mine. “I’m so sorry, Cate. I had no idea your father was ill. I just…I just assumed you two didn’t want to speak to me, after the way I left, and that’s why I never heard from you. I tried calling, but it said the number was unavailable. I thought you’d changed it.”

  “Phone died about two months after Daddy,” I say quietly, patting her shoulder. “It’s okay, Mama. You didn’t know.”

  “My poor girl. You were all alone,” she hiccups.

  “No. I had the fireflies.”

  A few silent beats pass until Tristan clears his throat hard. “We’ll hire tutors.” His voice sounds like gravel, his brow knitted. “Someone who can work with her speech and etiquette. Another instructor for academics.”

  “I can make an appointment for a house call with my stylist,” suggests my mother.

  “Yes,” Tristan says slowly, his eyes traveling down to my crossed legs and back up slowly. “You will give the stylist my number, though. I don’t want a single change made to Cate without my permission.”