Blackbird (A Stepbrother Romance #1)(4)

I turn the key. The motor chugs.

Oh, come on.

Another twist, and the rrr—rrrr-rrrrrr turns into a throaty note from the exhaust, but she doesn’t turn over for me. Come on. One more time. Fuck that Toyota. No disrespect to the Japanese, but I want my car back. I want my house, my life.

Third time’s the charm.

The roar of the exhaust sounds like an old airplane, thunderously loud in the confined space. The engine smoothes out almost immediately and I feel a surge of joy as I let out the clutch and ease in the gas. The car rumbles forward out of the garage and I whip around the turn, open the throttle and stab the button taped to the roof with my thumb. I hope the batteries aren’t dead.

They’re not, somehow. The wrought iron gates swing open. I roll the windows down. The rain has stopped and the air smells damp and musty. Mists cling to the ground.

I jam my hand out the window and give the security camera the finger before I whip out onto the road and two long black stripes of burnt rubber on the asphalt.

Vic is back, *s.





Chapter Two





Evelyn





I wake up at four thirty in the morning, each and every day. My morning routine is absolutely the same, down to the minute. First I brush my teeth, then I floss, then I shower, dry and brush out my hair. My hair is, in my own opinion, my best feature. My skin is too pale and lined with blue and red veins. When I get out of the shower, I look like a roadmap from the scalding heat of the water and the freezing chill of a November morning in this ancient house.

My clothes for the day are already laid out. A dark blue pencil skirt, blazer and black blouse, dark stockings and sensible shoes. I wind my hair into a simple bun and lock it in place with a pair of chopsticks, black. As I said, my hair is my best feature, so I keep it plain, to match the rest of me. Otherwise I am far from remarkable, at least in a good way. My nose is too big, my face too narrow. I don’t get much sleep and it shows on my face.

Breakfast is waiting for me downstairs. Father fired the Amsels’ cook after Victor’s mother passed away. He replaced most of the staff, in fact. I eat in the kitchen, skipping the overly ostentatious dining room. The cook, a round woman with a thick French accent, has little to say to me. Father keeps her around to impress clients. I eat a bowl of oatmeal and drink a glass of orange juice. The cook must love me. I eat the same thing for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, every day.

My assistant will be awake soon. After I’ve been served, the cook goes back to the servant’s quarters, back to bed, leaving me alone in the kitchen. Every sound rings heavily off endless expanses of stainless steel. I hate this place; I feel like I’m coming here to be dissected every morning. I put my own dishes in the sink and walk upstairs to the office.

Peter Amsel -Victor’s father-had a lovely Olde World office, in the very center of the house. I don’t use that. My office was once a bedroom. The house has sixteen bedrooms, though I think the largest brood that ever lived here was a total of eight children. In the old old old days, the Amsels used to house their entire brood here, generations living under the same roof. When Father married Victor’s mother and I moved in here, they lived alone. The house felt cavernous, and it still does. It feels angry. I’m not a superstitious person. I don’t believe in ghosts or any such foolishness. I don’t care how old the house is, it’s just brick and mortar, plaster and paint and wood.

It hates me anyway. I don’t belong here.

One day I will approach father about disposing of the estate, but not yet.

I’ve broached the idea before. The problem is legitimacy. Through a series of rather unfortunate events, I have come to be the heir to the Amsel fortune. My own portfolio is modest, inheritance from my mother. The Amsel holdings make me a billionaire, the ninth richest woman on the planet.

Peter Amsel’s will left everything to Victor, on certain conditions. When he went to prison, he was disinherited and it all reverted to his mother. His mother’s will passed everything to me. When we lost her to cancer shortly after Victor’s imprisonment, it all became mine. I’d give it all back if I could. I never wanted this.

I can still hear her breathy whisper. It was a terrible ordeal for her to speak with the cancer ravaging her lungs. Her last words were a throaty rasp.

Promise, was the last thing she said. Promise me.

I’m better at keeping my schedule than I am keeping promises.

Assistants are a pain. I go through them like a dog chewing bones. The latest is Alicia. She’s the first one that hasn’t complained about my hours. I let her sleep in-I don’t expect her to meet me in the office until seven in the morning. She arrives without comment and sits down in the guest chair in front of my desk and spreads out my agenda on her lap. I prefer to keep everything on paper. Electronics are not secure. Alicia is a middle aged woman, a mother of three who needs my patronage. If I were a cruel person I would exploit that. I don’t, I only ask for competence and that she refrain from wasting my time with pointless nonsense. I listen vaguely as she reads out my agenda for the day. I already know all of it. I need to be on a private jet in four hours, meaning we must leave in three. Before that I sit back and listen to her briefing for an hour as she goes over the news.

That damned feature story on me is causing no end of trouble. One of the financial rags interviewed me last month. They wanted me to show up in a cocktail dress and sprawl out on a desk, like a model in some kind of skin mag layout. I showed up in my usual conservative attire and stared into the camera. The magazine now sits on my desk, my own face staring back at me. I think they Photoshopped it, tried to make me prettier. I think I look like a weasel. Maybe a fox, if you’re being charitable, but not in the vulgar sense. The screaming bold headline proclaims me the Ice Queen of Wall Street. I haven’t read the article. I don’t need to. If I was a man I’d be celebrated. I dare to do this and be a woman, so I must be lambasted for my arrogance.