Read Online FIERCED 1: A Stepbrother Romance by Stephanie Brother - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Stephanie Brother
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the poverty and loneliness in the world.
Does that sound selfish?
I've been real lonely myself since my mom left us. As the American Ambassador, he and my mother moved around the world to thirteen different countries. Since she left us that tumultuous unbelievable day when we got to the hospital and they told us she passed away peacefully during the night, I've hardly seen him.
He threw himself into his work and seemed quick to forget the fact that he has a daughter. I don't blame him. He relied on Mom for so much and she supported him unequivocally. Something I'm not really equipped for although I do what I can. It's like his work is his only solace now and I'm not even in the room.
Rome is an amazing and beautiful city, old and yet vibrant. And did I mention the men? They're just as gorgeous as the food and I would be in seventh heaven indulging in both. Except my father is terrified of the tiniest scandal and of me, his only daughter being kidnapped. So I get to do not much in the way of indulging. I'm wrapped up in white satin and confined to quarters with the guards at the Embassy. And aside from my charitable works with geriatrics and little schoolkids, the only time I get to leave the house is for study. No dating obviously. I'm turning into an old maid at the age of twenty two.
I get wheeled out for state events and boring press calls. And then sent straight back home with the driver. All the fun champagne events with celebrities and billionaires I never get to go to. My father has a woman on hand to escort him to those, his press secretary or some other woman from the embassy who'll stand nicely and quietly and make him look good in the slew of Italian gossip magazines. Anything to up his publicity quotient.
I'm almost an orphan the amount I get to see my father. I eat dinner alone in our huge home and my best friend in the world is Sandro, the driver who brings me to and from the arts academy I attend. People think it must be a fab life being a diplomat's daughter in Rome, Italy, but believe me, I may as well be in Boise (no offense to the nice people there in Idaho) for all the rocking good times I have. Sometimes I fantasize about being kidnapped just to add some spice to my existence.
So when I rush back from the academy, Sandro driving the crazed streets like a real Roman, I wasn't expecting to find my father at home. Sandro had said the other driver, my father's personal man, had been called early. So maybe he was coming back to base and I was eager to show him the photographic art prints I'd worked hard on all week.
I dash along the wide hall of the embassy just in case Daddy's already here. All the old oil paintings of past ambassadors looking down on me sternly. The most recent, an art portrait of my dad taken by me. A break from the traditional painting, my dad had indulged my passion (under my mom's insistence) and let me shoot him for my first pro assignment photograph.
As I'm headed straight for my father's huge office at the end of the corridor, the double doors open and a man steps out. He has to open both the double doors, he's that bulky. And for some reason he makes my heart stop in its tracks. It's as though it stops, burps and jolts back into rhythm and the oddness of the skip throws me off balance.
I'm stumbling around in the hall in front of a man all in black who would be a cat burglar if he weren't so damn ripped. His muscles bulge taut against his tight black tee. One arm has a sleeve of black tattoos swirling and dancing under the flexing bicep. A tribal pattern almost like abstract masks all the way down to his wrist. His quads jerk and push against the black denim encasing his legs. He's way too bulked to squeeze through tight windows but he's dressed in black and he's emerging stealthily from daddy's private office.
“You there,” I shout. “What are you doing in my father's office? Is he in there?”
The guy looks up and his smile breaks across his stunning face. A smile
Does that sound selfish?
I've been real lonely myself since my mom left us. As the American Ambassador, he and my mother moved around the world to thirteen different countries. Since she left us that tumultuous unbelievable day when we got to the hospital and they told us she passed away peacefully during the night, I've hardly seen him.
He threw himself into his work and seemed quick to forget the fact that he has a daughter. I don't blame him. He relied on Mom for so much and she supported him unequivocally. Something I'm not really equipped for although I do what I can. It's like his work is his only solace now and I'm not even in the room.
Rome is an amazing and beautiful city, old and yet vibrant. And did I mention the men? They're just as gorgeous as the food and I would be in seventh heaven indulging in both. Except my father is terrified of the tiniest scandal and of me, his only daughter being kidnapped. So I get to do not much in the way of indulging. I'm wrapped up in white satin and confined to quarters with the guards at the Embassy. And aside from my charitable works with geriatrics and little schoolkids, the only time I get to leave the house is for study. No dating obviously. I'm turning into an old maid at the age of twenty two.
I get wheeled out for state events and boring press calls. And then sent straight back home with the driver. All the fun champagne events with celebrities and billionaires I never get to go to. My father has a woman on hand to escort him to those, his press secretary or some other woman from the embassy who'll stand nicely and quietly and make him look good in the slew of Italian gossip magazines. Anything to up his publicity quotient.
I'm almost an orphan the amount I get to see my father. I eat dinner alone in our huge home and my best friend in the world is Sandro, the driver who brings me to and from the arts academy I attend. People think it must be a fab life being a diplomat's daughter in Rome, Italy, but believe me, I may as well be in Boise (no offense to the nice people there in Idaho) for all the rocking good times I have. Sometimes I fantasize about being kidnapped just to add some spice to my existence.
So when I rush back from the academy, Sandro driving the crazed streets like a real Roman, I wasn't expecting to find my father at home. Sandro had said the other driver, my father's personal man, had been called early. So maybe he was coming back to base and I was eager to show him the photographic art prints I'd worked hard on all week.
I dash along the wide hall of the embassy just in case Daddy's already here. All the old oil paintings of past ambassadors looking down on me sternly. The most recent, an art portrait of my dad taken by me. A break from the traditional painting, my dad had indulged my passion (under my mom's insistence) and let me shoot him for my first pro assignment photograph.
As I'm headed straight for my father's huge office at the end of the corridor, the double doors open and a man steps out. He has to open both the double doors, he's that bulky. And for some reason he makes my heart stop in its tracks. It's as though it stops, burps and jolts back into rhythm and the oddness of the skip throws me off balance.
I'm stumbling around in the hall in front of a man all in black who would be a cat burglar if he weren't so damn ripped. His muscles bulge taut against his tight black tee. One arm has a sleeve of black tattoos swirling and dancing under the flexing bicep. A tribal pattern almost like abstract masks all the way down to his wrist. His quads jerk and push against the black denim encasing his legs. He's way too bulked to squeeze through tight windows but he's dressed in black and he's emerging stealthily from daddy's private office.
“You there,” I shout. “What are you doing in my father's office? Is he in there?”
The guy looks up and his smile breaks across his stunning face. A smile
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