Wall Street Titan

by Anna Zaires

  “You are not like her.” His gaze drills into me. “Do you hear me? You are nothing like her.”

  I stare at him, startled by the intensity in his voice. “I know, but—”

  “You are nothing like your mother,” he repeats in a softer tone, and something inside me—a cold knot I never knew was there—begins to melt, a warm feeling creeping in.

  “Thank you,” I say hoarsely, and then I have to look away as our waiter comes by, bringing the main course.

  I don’t want him or Marcus to see the sheen of tears in my eyes.

  33

  Marcus

  * * *

  Guilt, strong and unfamiliar, flavors every bite of the buttery branzino that is my main course. Emma got herself a Greek salad, and my chest aches as I watch her eat it, her manner unusually subdued.

  She opened up to me.

  She told me about her painful secret—and it was all I could do to let her carry on as if I was hearing it for the first time.

  As if I didn’t already know about the whole ugly mess.

  She didn’t tell me everything, of course—like the fact that her mother was once arrested for prostitution, or that she died in a car crash while being chased by a lover whose bank account she’d emptied earlier that day. But what she told me was enough.

  Enough to know that her fear of turning out like her mother—the fear she’d talked about in her college essay—is still there, as much a part of her as her red hair and softly freckled skin.

  And I, asshole that I am, used that fear against her, sending her expensive gifts so that she’d have no choice but to see me in person.

  In a way, I am like her mother—willing to do whatever it takes to get my way.

  “I’m sorry,” I say quietly when she continues eating without speaking. “Emma, kitten, I’m so sorry you had to go through all that.”

  My phone vibrates in my pocket, but I ignore it. Work can wait.

  She looks up from her plate, blinking. “What? Oh, no, it’s fine. My mother wasn’t abusive or anything, and in any case, she died in an accident when I was eleven, and my grandparents raised me from that point on. I was just telling you all that in case, you know…” She stops, pretty color spreading over her fair skin.

  “In case we get serious?”

  Her flush deepens. “I wasn’t—”

  “It’s okay.” Fuck, it’s more than okay. I like the idea. Love it, in fact.

  To my shock, I realize that I want her to think about getting serious, to picture us together in the future… because I’m already doing that myself.

  Shoving the unsettling thought away, I focus on the topic at hand. “Emma, listen to me,” I say when she resumes eating. “I don’t give a flying fuck about your mother. Well, I do—I’d love to go back in time and have you taken away from her long before you were eleven—but I don’t care what kind of woman birthed you. That doesn’t determine who you are, doesn’t change my opinion of you in any way.”

  She puts down her fork, her lips curving in a faint smile. “You don’t think blood will tell?”

  “No, I don’t.” How could I, with parents like mine? I hesitate for a moment, then say bluntly, “My father was killed in prison when I was two—he was there for armed robbery and assault—and my mother was an alcoholic. Not the functional kind, either—a full-on, twenty-four-seven drunk. She died from liver failure when I was eighteen.”

  I haven’t told anyone this in decades; in fact, I’ve gone to great pains to obscure my past from the media as soon as I had the resources to do so. The only thing my current friends and acquaintances know about my childhood is that I was raised in Staten Island by a single mother, who passed away from a rare liver disease.

  No ugliness, no drama, just your run-of-the-mill lower-middle-class upbringing.

  For some reason, though, I want Emma to know everything—to understand what kind of man she’s dealing with. Because if there’s any kernel of truth to the whole “blood will tell” business, mine is far more tainted than hers.

  Her eyes widen at my revelations, but to my relief, she looks neither put off nor disgusted. “I’m sorry,” she says softly, reaching across the table to lay her small hand on my arm. “That must’ve been so hard for you, growing up that way. Did you have anyone you could turn to for help? Grandparents? Other family members?”

  There’s genuine sympathy in her voice, and I know that she, of all people, understands what it’s like to grow up essentially on your own, to take care of yourself from a young age.

  To know that your mother, the person who’s supposed to have your best interests at heart, can’t be trusted.

  “Neither of my parents came from a close-knit family, but I had a lot of support in school,” I answer, figuring she might as well know everything. “My second-grade teacher, Mr. Bond, was particularly instrumental in guiding me through elementary school and beyond. It’s thanks to him that I chose to focus on my studies rather than making a quick buck on the streets.”

  “Oh?”

  I smile at the curiosity in her gaze. “Money was tight, as you can imagine, so by the time I was eight, I was doing whatever it took to put food on the table—running errands for the local gangs, peddling weed on the streets, stealing school supplies. It’s the latter that got me caught and nearly expelled. Mr. Bond stepped in at the last moment, vouching for me, and then he sat me down and told me about some legitimate ways I could make money—starting with the tutoring of kids whose math skills weren’t as good as my own. He also gave me several issues of Forbes magazine and told me all about the rich people on the cover, about how they got there and how I could get there too.”

  A soft smile curves her lips. “And you did, didn’t you?”

  “I did.” I don’t try to hide the satisfaction in my voice. “They wrote a feature on me shortly after I made my first billion.”

  “Wow.” Her smile widens, revealing those cute dimples. “Mr. Bond must be so proud of you. Do you still keep in touch with him?”

  “I did. Unfortunately, he passed away a few years ago. Pancreatic cancer,” I explain, my throat tightening.

  I did everything in my power to help him, but neither the world-class doctors I hired nor the experimental treatments I paid for could arrest the deadly disease.

  It was the most powerless I’d felt as an adult.

  Emma’s smile disappears. “I’m sorry. That must’ve been a terrible loss for you.”

  “Thank you,” I say evenly. “He was a good man.”

  My only consolation is that his children and grandchildren will never have to struggle financially, thanks to the seventy-million-dollar trust I set up in his name, explaining it to the lawyers as a lottery he’d won shortly before his death.

  The waiter comes by to clear our plates and bring out the dessert menu, and I use the distraction to push away the lingering grief. I’ve never spoken about this with anyone, but somehow, it felt right to confide in Emma, to have her know the real me, not the sanitized mask I show to the world.

  The waiter leaves, and Emma glances at the dessert menu for a second before setting it aside.

  I smile wryly. “Let me guess. Not hungry?” Now that I know she’s trying to keep her portion of the check to a minimum, I can pretty much predict what she will and won’t order.

  “I actually had dinner—well, half of it—before I got your latest gift,” she says. “Speaking of which—”

  “If you don’t mind, I’m going to get the baklava,” I say, as if I didn’t hear her. She’s going to try to refuse the books again, and I’m not about to let that happen. “It’s amazing here, the best I’ve ever had.”

  She blinks. “Of course, go right ahead.”

  I smile wider and motion to the waiter. “The baklava, please,” I tell him when he hurries over. “And bring two plates. We’ll share.”

  “Oh, I’m not going to—” Emma starts, but I hold up my hand as the waiter rushes away.

  “It’s only fair. I shared yo
ur ice cream, so I owe you at least a bite of my dessert,” I say with utter seriousness.

  “But—”

  “No buts. And I’m getting the dessert on my portion of the check. You’re not the only one who believes in fairness.”

  “Oh.” Her small white teeth worry her lower lip. “Okay then, I guess I can try a bite.”

  I conceal a satisfied grin. This might be a small thing, getting her to share my dessert, but it’s a step in the right direction. Before long, I intend to be paying for all our meals, as well as anything else she might want or need.

  First, though, I have to cure her of her fear of being like her mother, one bite of baklava at a time.

  The waiter returns, bringing the dessert. Before she can say anything, I cut a piece and put it on her plate. “Try it,” I urge, pushing the plate toward her, and she forks the honey-layered pastry into her mouth.

  It doesn’t get the orgasmic reaction that the halloumi did, but my cock still hardens as she chews and swallows with a blissful expression on her face.

  Fuck. I really have to get her to my place before I attack her in public like the sex maniac I’m turning into.

  The baklava is small, so we make quick work of it, and then I motion for the check. Emma grabs it again, and I let her, though it pains me to see her carefully count out the bills for her portion.

  In the investigator’s report, there was a section on her finances—the miserable state of which makes it even more insane that she’s doing this.

  Finally, the bill is paid, and I lead her out of the restaurant, my hand resting on the small of her back.

  “Where’s Wilson?” she asks, looking around for the car. “Or are we taking a cab?” Then her eyes widen, her cheeks flushing as she realizes what she’s implied. “Never mind, I forgot you live nearby. I’ll just take the subway home and—”

  “We’re less than four blocks from my place, so I gave Wilson the rest of the evening off,” I say, turning to face her. Capturing her small hands in mine, I gaze at her upturned face. “Emma, kitten… I want you to come home with me.”

  34

  Emma

  * * *

  I don’t know what I expected from a billionaire’s residence, but Marcus’s penthouse in Tribeca is like something from another world—a world I’ve only seen in glossy magazines and TV shows about the lifestyles of the rich and famous.

  Ultra-modern and decorated in shades of gray and white, the place is huge—at least for New York City. Maybe in the South or Midwest, where land is cheap, an apartment this size would be nothing special, but in the heart of Manhattan, it’s the equivalent of a fifty-karat diamond. As Marcus guides me around, I see an enormous living room with a sleek spiral staircase in the middle, a movie-theater-like media room, a fully equipped home gym, a dining area with a table big enough for twenty people, and a spacious kitchen with gleaming appliances that wouldn’t look out of place on a spaceship.

  And a pool.

  A forty-foot-long, rectangular swimming pool separated from the rest of the apartment by a thick glass wall and partially shielded from view by eight-foot-tall potted plants with leaves the size of my head.

  “Are they real?” I ask in a hushed tone, reaching out to touch one glossy leaf, and Marcus nods, smiling.

  “Yes, of course. There’s an indoor landscaping company that comes in to take care of them once a week, watering them and so on.”

  Right, of course. Because that’s what wealthy people do: hire professional landscapers to take care of their houseplants.

  “Do you have a chef and a housekeeper as well?” I ask, but to my surprise, Marcus shakes his head.

  “My butler handles everything, including the cooking and the cleaning. Well, he oversees the cleaning; there’s a company that actually does it.”

  “I see.” I sound slightly choked, but I can’t help it.

  A freaking butler? Am I in Downton Abbey?

  “Come, let me show you upstairs,” Marcus says, and I follow him to the spiral staircase, trying not to look as overwhelmed as I feel. I knew he was rich, of course, but it didn’t sink in fully before this.

  Everywhere I look are objects that cost more than all of my family’s possessions combined. From the abstract paintings on the walls to the sleek sculptures that could’ve been in a modern-art museum, this penthouse reeks of money. Insane money. The kind of money that makes a joke of my attempts to pretend that because I pay for my meals, we’re somehow on equal footing.

  God, what am I doing here?

  I don’t belong in this place any more than a subway rat would.

  “This is the library,” Marcus says, leading me into the first room off the stairs on the second floor, and I see two lounge chairs in a front of a fireplace and walls lined with books. Some of the bookshelves are covered with what appears to be hermetically sealed glass—they must hold more valuable books, like the signed first editions that he sent me.

  Feeling like Belle in Beauty and the Beast, I walk over to one of the glass cases and peer inside.

  Yep. Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea, the pages yellowed and slightly frayed. I have no doubt that if I opened the cloth-bound cover, I’d see the author’s bold scrawl on the title page.

  “Have you read all of these?” I ask, looking up when Marcus comes to stand next to me.

  “Most, but not all,” he says. “Some of the first editions—like the one you’re looking at—are just part of my collection. As I started to tell you on our first date, I like books too, both reading and collecting them.”

  Huh. Maybe we have more in common than I thought. It’s always been my dream to have a shelf full of my favorite authors’ signed copies. “Is that where you got the first editions you sent me? From your collection?”

  He smiles. “Indeed. I’m glad I happened to have your favorites.”

  I take in a deep breath. “Right. Thank you for that. Unfortunately, I can’t—”

  “Here, let me show you the rest of the place.” Deftly, he shepherds me out of the library and into a guest room bigger than my entire studio. His home office, with five computer monitors and three TVs mounted on the walls, follows, and then we finally step into the master bedroom.

  Instantly, my heartbeat picks up speed, my skin prickling with increased awareness of the man beside me. During the tour, I was so overwhelmed by the opulence around me that I almost forgot why I’m here. But now it’s all I can think about, my mind flashing to the heated look in Marcus’s eyes when he held my hands and asked me to come home with him.

  His thoughts must be traveling along the same pathways because his steely fingers loop around my wrist, and when I look up, I find his gaze filled with dark, primal intent. “Emma…” His voice is low and rough as he pulls me to him. “Kitten, I want you.”

  And as my insides clench on an answering surge of need, his lips crash against mine in a deep, voracious kiss.

  35

  Emma

  * * *

  I wake up slowly and with great reluctance, not wanting to leave the luxuriant warmth of the blanket and the silky softness of the sheets. My limbs feel heavy as I stretch, and my inner thighs are oddly sore, as if I’d done some hardcore yoga. Even my skin is strangely tender, especially in the more intimate—

  Oh God. I sit up and look around the unfamiliar bedroom, a burst of adrenaline chasing away the grogginess as I realize where I am and why I’m feeling like this.

  I’m in Marcus’s bedroom, and he fucked me all night long.

  Okay, maybe that last bit is an exaggeration, but that’s what it felt like. The man was insatiable, taking me over and over, as if we hadn’t had sex just a couple of hours earlier. I’ve lost count of how many times I’d orgasmed last night. Seven, eight… nine, maybe?

  No wonder my sex feels like it’s been scraped raw with male whiskers.

  Because it has been.

  My skin heats at the memory, and I pull up the blanket, realizing I’m sitting there totally naked. Thankfu
lly, I’m alone. Gripping the blanket, I look around for my clothes. I don’t see them anywhere, but there is a fluffy pink robe, much like the one I have at home, hanging on the door—and matching fuzzy slippers next to the bed.

  I hesitate for a moment, then slide my feet into the slippers and beeline for the robe.

  I hate the idea of wearing the same thing as Marcus’s other hook-ups, but it’s better than prancing around naked.

  To my surprise, the robe has a tag attached.

  Did he get it just for me, or does he keep a stash for these types of situations?

  Either way, I gratefully rip off the tag and put on the robe, wrapping the tie around my waist. Unlike mine, it’s long, all the way down to my ankles, and I instantly feel warm and cozy, as if I’m at home cuddling with my cats.

  Speaking of which, I have to get back to them soon. They’re not used to me being out all night, and I’m sure Mr. Puffs is already on a path of destruction. Plus, if I don’t do laundry today, I’ll have no underwear for tomorrow.

  Marcus is still nowhere to be seen, so I hurry into the adjoining bathroom and take a quick shower, then brush my teeth with a toothbrush I find considerately laid out by the sink, still in its plastic wrapper. There’s also a nice, expensive face moisturizer—unscented, just like I prefer—and even a bottle of hair gel that I use to tame the worst of the frizzy explosion on my head.

  My host is really acing this whole “having a female guest” thing.

  As I do all this, I try not to gape at my surroundings like a peasant. So what if the square whirlpool tub in the corner is deep enough to stand in? Or that the all-glass shower stall is twice the size of my entire bathroom and equipped with five rotating showerheads? None of that impresses me, not even the futuristic-looking toilet with a built-in bidet and a seat that warms my butt.