Off Limits: A Bad Boy Romance Page 22

  Then, during my senior year in high school before doing my undergrad work at USC, he’d met Layla Nova. Tall and vivacious, she was a perfect balm to my father’s wounded soul. I still don’t know how she got through his emotional defenses, but she did, and by the time Dad introduced me, I could see in his eyes the truth. He was head over heels for her, and after she spent the weekend at his house in Beverly Hills with the two of us, I could see why.

  There was only one dark corner to the whole thing. “Uhm, I don’t want to sound ungrateful, Dad, but you said four. Is Alix going to be there?”

  My Dad’s sigh told me everything I needed to know. “You know, Kade, it wouldn’t hurt for you to at least be more forgiving when it comes to your stepsister. Give it a try. For me, please?”

  If he only knew. “Okay, Dad, I’ll try. Uhm, let me clear my calendar. I’m pretty open right now, and I’ll email you exactly when I’m getting into town. Think you’d mind if I drove?”

  “It’s your time, son. Although with that Lexus you drive, I can see why. Just make sure you’re here by next Friday.”

  “I’ll be there, Dad,” I said. We hung up, and I immediately called my secretary, Monica, and my paralegal investigator, Vince, into the office. “All right, Monica, I need you to clear my calendar starting this Tuesday until Thursday of the following week. Vince, whatever Monica can’t clear, I’m putting in your hands. There shouldn’t be too much, just routine paperwork and continuation on the Carter case. Think you guys can handle it?”

  “I’m good,” Monica said. She was an experienced secretary, who I hired on the advice of my father. His advice to me coming out of law school was that a new lawyer should always have an experienced secretary to help as a guide through the areas of the law that they didn’t teach you in law school. Dad’s wise words had paid off, even with the higher salary she demanded over a younger secretary. “Uhm, there is a deposition scheduled on Thursday, you want that pushed back?”

  “What’s the case?” I asked, looking at my schedule on the computer. “Never mind, I got it. The Dufrense case. Nah, don’t push it back. Vince, you take that one, you’re good for it. Just go by the script I leave, and if you have any urges to strike out on your own, keep it within reason.”

  Vince, in addition to being my paralegal, was studying for the bar exam himself. He was a good guy who’d come up the hard way through the legal system, taking night classes while working a full-time job as a short-haul truck driver. I finally hired him as a paralegal six months ago while he finished off law school. He was a good investigator and had connections that often came in handy when dealing with some of the people my clients worked with or grew up with. “No problem, Kade. So, Dufrense and Carter.”

  “Thanks. Okay guys, I’ll have my phone on me, but I’d prefer if you don’t call. It’s my Dad’s anniversary.”

  After Vince and Monica left, I sat back and pondered the situation. Finally, unable to clear my head, I left the office, taking a walk along the river. The Willamette River cuts Portland in half, and along a lot of it there are walkways and other pedestrian-friendly areas. As I walked, my mind kept swirling around the idea that I’d be seeing Alix again.

  My stepsister is four-and-a-half years younger than me, and at twenty-one was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. Tall, with long, blonde hair that framed her face, crystal blue eyes, thick, bow-shaped lips and a pert little nose, she’d been sought after as a fashion model from her early teens, doing her first professional big shoot when she was only sixteen. I’d read somewhere that Alix was her generation’s first “sublime English Rose,” which I had no clue what it meant until I looked it up. Regardless of the name of her look, Alix had a face that was so beautiful it could stop a riot or start a war. Helen of Troy had nothing on her.

  The rest of her was just as amazing. At five ten, she had curves in all the places a man dreams of, especially up top where, for a fashion model at least, she was quite gifted. A stomach you could see yourself licking wine off of led to a waist that flared out into hips that you wanted to hold in your hands and squeeze, and legs that wrapped around you in your dreams. Or at least, that was what they did in mine.

  But there was my problem. You see, besides those dreams, I also had darker, more forceful ones. They started when I was at Stanford Law and, as part of the student experience, was sharing an apartment with a couple of other guys. Nothing abnormal about that, and they were pretty decent guys overall.

  Alix had just turned eighteen at the time, and she’d gotten featured in one of those bikini spreads. Being college guys, of course my roommates had a copy, and they constantly teased me about it—partly because they knew it annoyed me, but mostly because she truly was hot.

  That was around the time that I began to see Alix as a sexual creature and not just a stepsister, and it tore me apart. Because in addition to her beauty, there was a dark side to Alix that I didn’t like. Raised a total Daddy’s girl, Alix thought that her father, Paris Nova, was the epitome of perfection. From all accounts, and from her own words, I learned soon after meeting her that Alix practically worshiped the ground Paris walked on.

  What Alix didn’t know, or perhaps had suppressed in her head, was that Paris Nova was a bastard of the highest order. A sadistic abuser, he’d broken Layla’s arm once and orbital bone twice before she worked up the courage to leave, according to court documents, when he threatened to go after their six-year-old daughter. In an attempt to save her daughter from mental trauma, Layla never told Alix about any of the injuries she suffered at the hands of her father.

  Unfortunately, this meant that Alix bore Layla and my father an ill will. Thinking her mother a gold digger who left her father when she was little and kept her from seeing her Daddy, she cast Layla as the villain in her life and Paris as the hero. The reality was a lot grittier, as Paris Nova was arrested in Singapore when Alix was seven for beating a call-girl while being high on cocaine, crippling and blinding her for life. The resultant room search discovered nearly half a pound of uncut coke in his bags, and he was sentenced to death under the country’s draconian drug laws. While I’m normally one who favors a libertarian view in terms of the War on Drugs, it couldn’t have happened to a more deserving guy.

  Alix didn’t know, and ever since Layla had started dating Dad, she had acted like a total bitch to both of them. More than once, I’d been tempted to shatter her little fantasy world, but each time a look from Dad stayed my tongue. I didn’t know how much longer I could keep my words in check.

  So I had a stepsister who was tall, beautiful, a perfect physical specimen, and who, other than that one area, was a wonderful person . . . but one who deserved a spanking. A naughty girl who so deliciously deserved a spanking. The thought circled around and around in my head as I walked along the Willamette River, and I could feel the blood rushing down below. Groaning in frustration, I adjusted myself and carried on.

  There was no way I’d give in to my desires.

  I was in control.

  CHAPTER 3

  ALIX

  T wo weeks after breaking up with Sydney, life was still miserable. I was sleeping badly, and I knew it was because I’d never been cheated on before. I’d had boyfriends, and even though I’d fallen in love once or twice, in every instance we broke up amicably, or at least before any cheating happened. Sydney’s cheating shook me to my core. Things were compounded when I got a phone call from my agent.

  “Hey Alix,” she said, her normal bitchy perky self. The fashion industry has a lot of people like that. “I’ve got a job for you. High profile too.”

  “What is it?” I asked, thinking that perhaps doing some work would help. The weather was great, and an outdoor shoot by the ocean or up in the mountains would be just the sort of thing to clear my head.

  “Men’s Health,” my agent said. “Uh, there’s one catch though. Karla’s in the shoot as well. Think you two can get along?”

  “Sure, why not?” I said. Karla McDonald and I were rivals, and pe
rhaps could be called frenemies. An Australian girl who used to play volleyball down under, she and I were similar in body size and type. She was a bit bigger in the butt, I was a bit bigger up top, but both of us could wear the same clothes by the same designer and do a good shoot. Because of that, we were often in competition for the same contracts.

  Sometimes we ended up doing the same shoots when the client wanted to do the whole “angel and the devil” sort of vibe. I’m a blonde while Karla is a very dark brunette. Despite the tenseness of competition, we had great on-camera chemistry, and quite a few clients insisted we did themed shoots together, which was definitely profitable. It was certainly a strange relationship in my life.

  “Great,” my agent told me, “the shoot’s on Friday. Think you can be in tip-top bikini shape by then?”

  “I didn’t think Men’s Health did bikini shoots,” I replied, curious. “What’s the shoot about?”

  “Sex and exercise, what else? I said bikini because according to what they’re looking for, there’s two sets that will be shot with the same male model. In one you’re in the gym with him, wearing skimpy exercise clothes, and in the other you’ll be in lingerie doing foreplay. Think you can handle it?”

  “I guess,” I replied. I’d done lingerie and sexy shoots before; they weren’t all that different from a normal shoot once you got past the fact that I was mostly naked. While I might have a man’s hand on my waist or hip, sometimes on my arm or shoulder, that was usually it. If a guy got aroused, I was supposed to just deal with it, and he was normally wearing shorts under the ever-present sheet around his waist. It was easier with the gay models—it was kind of like playing pretend. “I mean, of course. I’ll be ready. Thanks for the heads-up.”

  * * *

  The next day, I was working through my daily yoga and exercise routine when my cellphone rang. I was on the recumbent bike, just cooling down, so I picked up. “Hello?”

  “Hey, sweetie.”

  I inwardly grimaced. I was twenty-one, for God’s sake, and yet my mother insisted on calling me sweetie like she did when I was in preschool. “Hello, Mom.”

  I knew my mom didn’t like calling me, and I really wasn’t trying to be a bitch. But ever since she married Derek Prescott, I had a hard time keeping my temper around either of them. It wasn’t like Derek was a bad guy, but he wasn’t my Daddy. “Did I call at a bad time? I was kind of hoping I wasn’t interrupting anything.”

  I glanced at the timer on the bike and realized I’d only be giving up a minute of cool-down, so I let it slide. “No, Mom, you didn’t interrupt me. What can I do for you?”

  Like I ever could, even if I wanted. Since marrying Derek, my mother didn’t want for anything. The man had more money than he could count, and I had to give him credit, he was a loyal, almost doting husband. My mom had hit the gold digger lottery, that was for sure.

  “Well, honey, this upcoming weekend Derek wants to have a family gathering before our five-year anniversary. I know it’s been a long time since you’ve been by the house, and I know you’re busy, but it would really mean a lot to Derek and me if you could come.”

  “Oh, Mom, you know how my work is,” I started, before I heard something in my mother’s voice I hadn’t heard before. She was sincerely asking me; this meant a lot to her.

  “Please, Alix? I . . . I miss you.”

  What about missing Daddy? You never missed him, now did you? I wanted to ask, but somewhere inside, I clamped down on it. It was perhaps the most infuriating thing about my relationship with my mother. I’d be ready to go off on her, to yell or to ask her about why she had done what she did to my Daddy, but then something inside would just shut up, not letting me vent my anger. I knew I was wrong for it, but I just had this deep resentment that was hard to shake. It was the same this time. I wanted to tell her to kiss off, but instead, with a voice I could barely recognize as my own, I agreed to go over to their house on Friday after my photo shoot.

  “By the way, Derek spoke with Kade, and he’ll be coming too. He’s driving in sometime Friday afternoon.”

  Kade. My stepbrother, who I had tried so hard to make a good relationship with. I mean, it wasn’t his fault that he was Derek Prescott’s only son. In high school, I’d always looked up to Kade as he studied his way through USC and then Stanford, before going up to Portland and starting his own law office.

  There was only one problem. In public, at least when Derek or my mother were around, he was polite, charming, and really very friendly. But as soon as it was the two of us, he would mercilessly taunt me. When I showed him one of my test shots from a new photographer I had been working with, he’d said I looked like a zombie. When I was interviewed by a magazine, he’d made fun of some of my answers, saying I was the epitome of a Valley Girl blonde. After I’d done one, and it was the only, photo shoot with Khloe K, he was so brutal with his taunts and jibes that I’d thrown myself into my pillow crying after he left.

  I didn’t even know why, because I was never mean or snippy with him. I honestly tried to be nice, but for some reason he kept pushing me away. I’d almost given up on him, which made me kind of sad. I didn’t want to have nothing good come out of my mother’s marriage to Derek Prescott.

  After a moment of silence, I finally replied. “I see. Well, I hope he has some good stories about life in Portland. I haven’t had a chance to go up there yet.”

  “I know, it’s been a long time for me too. Okay, honey, thank you so much for agreeing to come over to the house and give up your weekend. I know you must have a busy social schedule and everything, I really appreciate it. Love you.”

  I smiled despite myself. “Talk to you later, Mom.”

  * * *

  Friday morning, I felt ready to put the past behind me. I had a new shoot going, and was heading over to have a hopefully relaxing weekend afterwards. If anything, even if I couldn’t stand either my mother or her husband, the Prescott mansion was more than capable of giving a girl a great place to relax. In addition to four-poster beds and mattresses that were made for a queen, there was a half-Olympic-sized pool and a full-sized Jacuzzi for relaxing. I had to admit, the few years I lived at the Prescott home before I turned eighteen were surreal. Since moving out on my own, supposedly because of the business of my modeling career, I’d come to miss it.

  Walking into the studio where the shoot was supposed to take place, my heart froze when I saw the camera equipment that had been set up. Every photographer has a certain way they like to set things up, a tendency to favor certain types of equipment. Looking at the setup, I knew, even before he walked out of the back room, that Sydney was shooting the series.

  “Sydney,” I said when he came out. He looked at me and smiled, like he hadn’t torn my heart out and crushed it just a few weeks prior. “When did you get this assignment? My agent didn’t say anything.”

  “Oh, it was last minute, just yesterday, in fact,” he replied, coming closer. “You know, Alix, I’ve really missed you.”

  “Guess you should’ve thought of that before you had what’s-her-name on her knees,” I replied, shuddering at the way he looked at me. “Listen, I’m not going to walk out, but realize this. This is the last time you and I work together. I don’t care if it costs me some shoots, but I’m telling my agent after today that you and I are not to work together again.”

  “Alix, come on. I forgive you for the way you acted at the party, you know,” Sydney said. “The least you can do is get over yourself and come back to me.”

  I stared at him, unable, or perhaps just too shocked, to speak. Finally I turned and went into the wardrobe area before I hit him. I nearly threw my bag into my chair, not even noticing that Karla was already in her chair, getting ready.

  “G’day luv,” she said in her thick Aussie accent. “I see you’re rarin’ to go.”

  “Hey, Karla,” I replied. “Listen, no offense today, but just, I’m in like a really bad mood, okay? So while I normally appreciate the little jokes and humorous insights
you make, not today, please?”

  “What’s going on?” Karla asked, her accent cutting by a third. I had always suspected she played up her Aussieness to have a unique advantage. I know it helped her on her Instagram account, where she had nearly half a million followers. The girl made a lot of money off that account, too. “I thought you’d be excited to work with your boyfriend for a shoot like this.”

  “Ex-boyfriend,” I replied shortly. “Didn’t the word get out?”

  Karla shook her head. “I’ve been back home until this past Tuesday, doing some shoots for companies and sponsors in Sydney and Adelaide. What happened?”

  “He did,” I replied simply. “I don’t really want to talk about it right now though, okay?”

  “Okay,” Karla said. “But if you need some help, just tell me. I’ll be happy to try and get you to smile. Hey, did you see the shoot schedule? We’re doing the workout portion first. Hope you’ve been doing your Pilates.”

  I shook my head in amusement. Karla knew that, despite the similarities in our physiques, our athletic backgrounds could not have been more different. She was a former volleyball player who still enjoyed doing sports or training daily. I, on the other hand, didn’t dare do too much. In high school I’d been into athletics, and it had cost me a few contracts since I added muscle too quickly for clients’ liking. So for me, the less physically active I was in order to keep decent muscle tone, the better. It did give me another option in modeling, however, as I grew older. In my mid-twenties, I could become more active and go into the fitness modeling scene, where having some more muscle was considered even sexier. It was appealing, honestly. I didn’t like not working my body.