Page 3 of Sinful Desires

It was that broad smile and the way he squeezed me when I gave him a hug that left me feeling heavy and conflicted again. He was in a fantastic mood, and I was here to potentially ruin it. “You’re just the girl I wanted to see,” he murmured, kissing the top of my head. “Well, you and your sister.”

“What’s going on?”

He was still smiling wide when he took my hand and tugged me into the room. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

At first, I couldn’t make sense of what I saw before me. It was like the man sitting in one of the leather chairs in front of Dad’s oak desk, dressed in a dark suit this time, his dirty blond curls now tamed went out of his way to look nice for this meeting.

That didn’t change anything. The knowing grin I’d seen earlier was firmly in place as Miles stood, straightening his suit jacket and extending a hand.

“Aria, I would like you to meet Miles Young.” With his arm around my shoulder, Dad led me to where Miles waited for a handshake. “He’s your stepbrother.”

My stepbrother?

Mute with shock, I lifted my hand but barely felt the pressure as Miles engulfed it with his much larger hand. My stepbrother. It was true. Ice spread its way through my veins. Was I dreaming?

“Aria.” Miles’s rich voice practically dripped with what probably sounded genuine warmth to my father but sounded a lot like sarcasm to me when paired with the humor dancing in his gold-flecked eyes. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this.”

2

MILES

Her open-mouthed, shocked expression was priceless. The only thing keeping me from laughing out loud was the memory of how long it had taken to get here, and that meant much more than the penthouse of the man whose name I’d heard for as long as I could remember.

“I’m sorry, Pumpkin.” The man in question squeezed his daughter, whose icy hand I decided to release. “I know this comes as a shock.”

Mom was right when she’d described him as a two-faced, arrogant asshole. How could he stand in front of me and pretend the surprise he’d pantomimed at my mother’s grave was sincere? Did he truly believe she’d never explained—in detail—what went down between them?

Rather than wait for him to approach with his condolences, I went to him after the short graveside service drew to a close and cut to the chase. “I’m Miles Young. You must be my stepfather.”

There was deep gratification in watching him react. The ticking of his jaw. The flared nostrils. He struggled to keep himself in check, for sure, but no man could be confronted bya past he tried to forget without reacting. “Your stepfather? How is that possible?” he asked, looking me over like he was searching for a resemblance to my mother.

So that was his choice. Pretending he never knew I existed. At that point, it was his word versus Mom’s, and she could no longer tell her side of the story. No doubt he thought he was in the clear—the audacity of the greedy prick.

Raising my coat collar to shelter from an icy wind, I forced a chuckle for his sake. “You mean you had no idea I existed? I suppose it’s understandable. From what I heard, I spent my earliest days in my grandmother’s care while Mom worked.”

“But she never…” His brow creased, dark eyes still darting over my face. “Why didn’t I know about you?”

Still a liar after all these years. Some things never changed. “I couldn’t tell you,” I offered with a shrug. “The only person who could is no longer with us.”

“How do you know who I am?” he asked. The slightest touch of suspicion leaked into the question, not that I was surprised. A naturally dishonest, cold-hearted prick would assume everyone operated as he did.

“There were five mourners at the grave,” I reminded him. “Three of whom paid their respects as colleagues of mine. And you happen to look a lot like Magnus Miller, a man whose name I naturally googled once I learned he was my mother’s husband back when I was a baby.” Why he’d shown his face was a mystery. He’d abandoned her thirty years prior. Why care now? Maybe he wanted to confirm she was truly gone after seeing the obituary I’d sent toThe New York Times.

Ex-wife of Manhattan Billionaire Dies in London.

Send donations in lieu of flowers.

I’d placed the ball in his court, and he’d decided to take a shot by flying out.

I hadn’t expected him to play dumb, which meant a lot of ad-libbing on my part. He seemed to buy the explanation easily, some of the doubt draining from his penetrative stare. “You look a lot like her,” he observed. “Let me take you to lunch. It seems we have a lot to catch up on.”

That was all it took for my asshole stepfather to trust me—that and learning about the very profitable and still-growing Young Industries, of course. Once he knew I wasn’t after his precious money, he let his guard down. “I still can’t believe she’d keep you a secret,” he murmured over a glass of scotch after hours spent catching up, as he put it.

He hadn’t told me anything I didn’t already know about him or his fucking family, though I did my best to feign interest and surprise when it applied.

Digging deep into my reserves of self-control, I suggested, “She may have been afraid of scaring you off. A single mother with a baby in diapers? How many young, wealthy men look to tie themselves down that way?”

“I would have liked to have a son.” Staring into his glass, he murmured, “Knowing you were around might have changed a few things.”

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