Wall Street Titan

by Anna Zaires

  I cringe internally at how pathetic that sounds, but Marcus’s eyes narrow again, his nostrils flaring as he leans in. “And they were good in bed, those two boyfriends of yours?” There’s something dark and dangerous in his voice, almost menacing.

  If I didn’t know better, I would’ve thought him jealous.

  Regardless, I’m tempted to keep up the lie, so I come across as less of a loser. But when I open my mouth, the truth comes out instead. “No, they weren’t,” I admit, holding his gaze. “Arthur was seventeen and didn’t know what he was doing, and Jim… well, Jim was okay, I guess. But it wasn’t like this with him. Not like it is with you and me.”

  Contrary to my expectations, the confession doesn’t appease Marcus. If anything, his face darkens further. Dipping his head so that his lips brush my ear, he says in a low, rough voice, “I’m glad you weren’t popular, kitten… because if you were, I’d have a lot of fucking Jims and Arthurs to destroy.”

  And as I’m processing that bizarre declaration, he hoists me up onto the counter and takes my mouth in a deep, darkly possessive kiss.

  44

  Marcus

  * * *

  “No, no more. I’m so sore,” Emma groans, rolling off the bed when I cup her breast, and I reluctantly let her go, though I could gladly go for round two. Or three—depending on whether coming on her ass this morning counts.

  Fuck, no wonder she’s begging for mercy. I have zero control around her. And hearing about her ex-boyfriends didn’t help. I all but lost it, picturing her with those pimply-faced idiots—which is how we ended up back in bed despite my best intentions.

  I was going to be a gentleman and keep my hands off her until tonight.

  I really was.

  She’s wisely decided to remove the temptation by disappearing into the bathroom, so I get up and get dressed, ignoring the contemptuous stares from the cats. Well, two of the cats; Cottonball seems to have warmed up to me a bit, and his green gaze is merely chiding.

  Like his siblings, he thinks I’m a sex-crazed beast.

  “Come here, buddy,” I mutter, sitting down on the one and only chair and patting my knee when Emma takes her sweet time in the bathroom. “I need a distraction so I don’t attack your pretty owner again.”

  The cat eyes me dubiously, then saunters over and jumps onto my lap. I shake my head and start petting him, still amazed that he trusts me to hold him. Aren’t animals supposed to be able to tell when people like them? Not that I dislike this particular cat; he seems to be nicer than most.

  By the time Emma comes out of the bathroom dressed in her short pink robe, Cottonball is purring loud enough to wake the neighborhood, and I can’t deny that I’m enjoying myself. In theory, I should be hating all of this—the cats, the dingy apartment, the lumpy bed that’s half a foot too short for me—but instead, I feel good, much too good considering how little sleep I got last night and how much work is likely waiting for me at the office. Normally, I’d spend a good portion of my weekend poring over my analysts’ reports and reviewing our biggest positions, but all I’ve done over the past two days is spend time with Emma… and it’s all I want to do. I’ve barely checked my email today. In fact, this may be the most relaxing Sunday I’ve had since… well, since grade school.

  I started managing money—mine and my classmates’ in college—and I haven’t been this calm since.

  As if on cue, my phone starts buzzing in my pocket. For a moment, I’m tempted to let it go to voicemail, but then my sense of responsibility kicks in. There are billions of dollars and hundreds of employees’ jobs on the line. I can’t ignore that just because I want to spend the rest of the day with Emma.

  Setting the purring cat on the floor, I pull out the phone.

  Sure enough, it’s Jarrod—who only calls me on the weekends in case of major fuck-ups.

  “What?” I bark, my adrenaline already surging.

  I don’t have a good feeling about this.

  My CIO doesn’t beat around the bush. “It’s bad. The municipals team just called me. Remember that high-risk bond we bought a couple of weeks back? Well, the municipality’s capital raise just failed—something about a local politician getting caught with his hand in the cookie jar. It’s just hitting the newswires now.”

  Fuck. I leap to my feet. “How deep in the hole are we?”

  “Right now? Three hundred mil, but rumor is, they’re going to declare bankruptcy on Monday.”

  Thus rendering our entire $700 million investment worthless.

  Motherfucker. We’re about to have our first down month this year—and right before Alpha Zone, too.

  “Tell them to liquidate what they can,” I order, my mind already scrambling for solutions. “And call an emergency meeting of the PMs—we need actionable short-term ideas.”

  “On it,” Jarrod replies and hangs up.

  Emma is now in front of me, a worried frown on her face as she gazes up at me. “What’s wrong? Did something happen at your fund?”

  I nod, grabbing my coat from the back of the chair. “A trade gone bad. I have to go into the office.” I know I sound brusque, but I can’t help it.

  We’re about to lose $700 million, and I almost didn’t pick up the phone, too caught up in her spell to think straight. Fuck, what am I talking about? I should’ve gone over the investment with a fine-toothed comb this Saturday, like I was planning to do before Emma ended up in my bed. My municipals PM is good, but I’m better at seeing the big picture. I might’ve spotted some red flag regarding the politician, and we could’ve liquidated yesterday, before the news of the embezzlement hit. But no. I was with my redheaded obsession, and I couldn’t tear myself away from her. In one short weekend, I’ve become so addicted to her that I’ve lost sight of what matters. Even now, knowing the fund is in trouble, a part of me wants to stay with Emma instead of rushing to the office, to fuck my worries into submission rather than dealing with the fallout of my mistake.

  I was wrong. She’s not chocolate and Netflix.

  She’s fucking heroin, and I’m dying for a hit.

  “Oh, that sucks, I’m sorry,” she says, her gray gaze sympathetic, and even now, I’m tempted to steal a kiss as I step around her on my way out.

  “I’ll call you later,” I say curtly instead and stride out, slamming the door shut before the cats can escape.

  I need to put some distance between me and Emma.

  I need to detox before I’m in too deep.

  45

  Emma

  * * *

  He’s gone so fast it’s as if I’d imagined him here. Only the rumpled bedsheets provide evidence of his recent presence—that and the persistent tenderness between my legs. Somehow, we still ended up having sex after breakfast, and now I’m really sore.

  So, yeah, it’s probably for the best that he left so abruptly. Well, not for the best—I feel bad that something went wrong at his fund—but I certainly shouldn’t feel abandoned or anything. So what if he didn’t kiss me goodbye? We’re not boyfriend and girlfriend. He’ll probably turn up when he’s done at the office, and we’ll have a ridiculous amount of sex again.

  That is, assuming he still wants me. There’s no guarantee of that.

  The thought is oddly depressing. Just the possibility of never seeing Marcus again makes my chest feel tight and heavy, like it’s being squeezed in a vise.

  “He’ll be back, right?” I ask Queen Elizabeth, and she gives me the cat equivalent of a shrug—a blank stare, followed by a tiny tail swish.

  I sigh and walk over to my desk. I’m imagining this, I’m sure, but for a moment there, it seemed as if Marcus had been upset with me… as if I’d done something wrong. But that’s silly. He got bad news from work, that’s all. Whatever’s going on at his fund has nothing to do with me. The only thing I can think of as far as something I could’ve done is telling him I’m too sore to have even more sex.

  Wait a sec.

  Is that it?

  Did I offend him by refusing
his advances?

  No, that doesn’t seem right. Marcus is too confident, too much of a man to have such a fragile ego. It is, however, feasible that with the possibility of more sex off the table, he didn’t see the point in staying.

  But no. There was that phone call. He didn’t make it up. I saw his face; the news he got really was bad. There might be hundreds of thousands or even millions of dollars on the line—tens of millions, for all I know. It’s ridiculous to imagine he’d even be thinking about me during such a critical time; most likely, he seemed short because he was worried about the bad trade.

  In any case, he said he’ll call later, so I’m sure I’ll hear from him tonight. Or if not tonight, tomorrow.

  In the meantime, I should use this opportunity to catch up on my editing.

  I’m already a weekend behind schedule as is.

  46

  Marcus

  * * *

  Bleary-eyed, I scrub my palm over my face and glance at the clock.

  3:05 a.m.

  We’ve been at it for over twelve hours.

  Getting up, I toss my disposable coffee cup into the trash and look around the glass-walled conference room. Jarrod and all of my portfolio managers are here, sitting around the long rectangular table surrounded by piles of reports. Like me, they’ve been going over the investment ideas the analysts have been bringing in, trying to figure out how we can make up a $700 million loss during a holiday-shortened week.

  If we’re still in the hole come November 30th, we’ll lock in this month’s underperformance, and it’s going to be a permanent black mark on the fund’s record—not to mention, a source of embarrassment at the upcoming Alpha Zone conference.

  So far, there are a number of promising short-term ideas, but nothing big enough to plug a $700 million hole. And odds are, we’re not going to find that gem tonight.

  I slap my palm on the table, and everyone snaps to attention.

  “Enough,” I say. “Everyone, go home. We’ll resume this first thing in the morning.”

  I don’t want their judgment compromised by lack of sleep.

  It’s bad enough I’ve let my dick do my thinking for me.

  “See you back here at seven?” Jarrod says, walking by me, and I nod. It wouldn’t hurt to catch up with my CIO before the PMs pile in. He’s only twenty-seven, but he has a knack for seeing the big picture, same as I do. One day soon, he’s going to strike out on his own, but until then, I’ve got his clever brain to bounce ideas off of.

  Everyone files out of the conference room, and I follow, a tension headache squeezing my temples as I close the door behind us. On the main floor, the analysts are hunched over their computers, crunching numbers and sorting through data, searching for something to bring to their PMs.

  I’m tempted to send them home too, but since they don’t make the decisions, being clear-headed is less crucial for them. I decide to leave it up to the individual PMs and head out, my headache worsening with every step I take.

  It takes less than twenty minutes to get home—traffic is nonexistent at this hour—and as I fall into bed, my thoughts turn to Emma for the fiftieth time this night. She’s probably long asleep by now. I can picture her curled up with her cats in her short, narrow bed, her wild red curls spread over the pillow and her lush little body barely covered by the pair of panties and a tank top that she wears in place of pajamas. Even with the headache beating at me, the image tightens my groin and makes warmth curl in my chest.

  I’d give anything to hold her right now.

  Anything at all.

  My hand is already reaching for my phone when I realize what I’m doing. Swearing under my breath, I yank it back, furious with myself. This is the tenth time I’ve nearly called or texted her tonight, despite my resolution to do an Emma detox.

  No seeing her or thinking about her—that’s the goal I’ve set for myself. And that means no calls or texts. I need to be in control of this addiction, to prove to myself that I can go without my fix for at least some time.

  That I can function at work and elsewhere even with this obsession.

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I try to focus on the investment ideas, so that as I sleep, my brain can process all the information I’ve crammed into it over the past twelve hours. It’s often the best way to do it, to just step back and let the connections form on their own, without forcing the process. Yet as I’m drifting into sleep, it’s not debt coverage ratios and volatility hedges that occupy my mind.

  It’s her.

  Emma.

  The craving I can’t erase.

  47

  Emma

  * * *

  Marcus doesn’t contact me for the rest of Sunday, but I don’t worry about it much. After all, he’s probably busy with his emergency. By Monday afternoon, however, I’m checking my phone every five minutes, afraid I somehow missed a call or a text.

  There’s nothing, though.

  Not even a quick “hey.”

  At dinnertime, my phone finally rings. I grab it eagerly, my pulse jumping in excitement, but it’s only Kendall—undoubtedly calling to get all the juicy details about my hookup. Swallowing my disappointment, I start to accept the call, but at the last second, I send it to voicemail instead.

  I don’t want to discuss Marcus with her—not until I know what’s going on between us.

  Assuming anything is still going on, that is.

  I debate reaching out to him myself, sending a quick text to see how he’s doing, but I decide against it. He might get annoyed that I’m bothering him in the middle of his emergency, or worse yet, he might not respond, and then I’ll feel really awful. In any case, Marcus is not an insecure college freshman who needs to be prodded into contacting a girl he likes. The fact that I haven’t heard from him means he doesn’t want to talk to me.

  It’s as simple as that.

  I spend Monday night tossing and turning, unable to get comfortable. Even with my cats next to me, my bed feels empty and cold, my blanket too thin to repel the winter chill seeping in through the poorly insulated window. My boss told me a major snowstorm is coming tomorrow night, and it feels like it, with the wind already kicking up and the temperatures starting to plummet.

  I hope I can fly out on Wednesday. It would majorly suck if the airline canceled my flight.

  I finally drift off to sleep after two, and when my alarm goes off at seven, I immediately reach for my phone.

  Still nothing.

  No calls, no texts.

  My stomach sinks, and the heavy tightness returns to my chest. It’s possible that Marcus is still insanely busy at work, but texting something along the lines of “hey, thinking of you” would take less than three seconds. Unless, of course, he’s not thinking of me at all—which is looking increasingly likely.

  He may have had his fill of sex with me and moved on, in which case I may never hear from him again.

  I try not to think about it, but by Tuesday afternoon, I can no longer dismiss the possibility. Maybe with another guy, a two-day disappearance wouldn’t have meant much, but Marcus has never played by the rules of modern courtship, complete with all the “keep her guessing” games. From the very beginning, he’s been crystal clear about his intentions, going after what he wanted—me in his bed—with the same kind of intensity he must apply to all areas of his life. Daily dates, over-the-top gifts, meeting my grandparents on Skype, spending most of the weekend with me—he all but bulldozed his way into my body and my life. I didn’t stand a chance once he set his sights on me… and maybe that’s the problem.

  Maybe a challenge was what he wanted all along, and since I’ve ceased to be that, he’s moved on to something—or someone—more exciting.

  Around four, Kendall calls me again, and I again send her to voicemail. I can imagine how excited and bubbly she’ll sound, wanting to hear all about my affair with a billionaire, and I simply don’t feel up to dissecting Marcus’s actions with her. Maybe it’s because I got so little sleep last night, but I fee
l completely drained, as listless as if I were coming down with the flu.

  And maybe I am.

  Maybe that’s what this squeezing pain in my chest is all about.

  “You should go home early,” Mr. Smithson advises when I’m done shelving this week’s shipment of romance novels. “It’s already starting to snow.”

  “Oh, right. I almost forgot about the storm.” I glance outside, where the howling wind is driving the first flurries into twister-like patterns. “I’ll have to check on my flight.”

  My boss grimaces. “It’s not looking good, Emma, sorry. They said on the news the airlines have already started announcing cancellations.”

  Great. Just great. My eyes prickle, and I have to turn away, blinking rapidly to keep the sudden influx of tears at bay. I didn’t realize until now how much I’ve been anticipating this trip—both because I badly miss my grandparents and because I need to get away.

  I’m dying to escape from this awful weather… and the growing pain of the realization that I may never see Marcus again.

  I make it home before the worst of the snow starts, my neck snug and warm thanks to the scarf Marcus gifted me. I didn’t want to put it on this morning, but the wind was too biting to ignore.

  Dispirited, I take it off and put it in a shoebox to keep it safe from Mr. Puffs. Then I hang up my coat and give the cats their dinner before trudging to my laptop to check on my flight.

  To my relief, my airline has only cancelled tonight’s and tomorrow morning’s flights so far. They must expect the weather to clear up by tomorrow afternoon.

  “Well, that’s something,” I tell the cats, returning to the kitchen to make my own dinner. “I may be able to make it to Florida, after all.” Even to my own ears, however, my voice sounds flat, lacking all hint of excitement.