Titan's Addiction (Wall Street Titan Book 2)

by Anna Zaires

  She grins, revealing teeth several shades whiter than I recall them being. “I was just about to ask you the same thing. I’m here with Landon. He got a VP position at Goldman Sachs a couple of months ago, and we’re here with his team, celebrating an IPO they just launched. What about you? What brings you here?” Her gaze travels over me from head to toe, lingering for a moment on my scuffed boots, and I can sense her confusion.

  A fancy Midtown restaurant popular with the Wall Street crowd must be the last place she’d expect to run into me.

  “Oh, I’m… I’m here with someone too.” Naturally, I blush as I say this, and Janie’s green eyes flare with curiosity.

  “Who?”

  “A guy I’m seeing.” It’s been so long since Janie and I have talked that she feels almost like a stranger, and I’m hesitant to get into the whole messy story—especially since Marcus and the others are waiting for me.

  Unfortunately, my non-answer only peaks her curiosity. “Who is this guy? What does he do? Where does he work? I had no idea you were dating someone.”

  “It’s a fairly recent development, and he’s… he’s in finance.”

  Janie gasps. “Really? Like my Landon? Oh, we should go on a double date one of these days, let the boys get to know one another.”

  “Um, sure.” Until she mentioned Goldman Sachs, I’d forgotten that Landon worked on Wall Street as well, or maybe I never knew it in the first place. I’d only met the guy a couple of times, early on in their relationship, and the only thing I recall about him is that he sneers a lot and loves putting down other people. Needless to say, I’m less than keen on this double date. But I do miss Janie, and since she and Landon appear to be glued at the hip, I may need to tolerate him for her sake.

  “Oh, awesome!” She hugs me again, enveloping me in a cloud of perfume—fragrance tolerance being yet another thing about her that’s apparently changed—and says, “I have to run now, but I’ll call you soon and we’ll set something up, okay?”

  “Sounds good,” I say and watch her rush out of the bathroom, her sexy red-soled pumps clicking loudly on the tile floor. When she’s gone, I turn back to the mirror, fix my fluffed-by-the-hug curls the best I can, and exit the bathroom after her.

  30

  Emma

  When I return to the table, Marcus is talking about his fund’s latest strategies and everyone is attentively listening, so I quietly slip into my seat next to him and spread my napkin over my lap. The encounter with Janie distracted me from my Emmeline-induced angst, but now that I’m back here, I’m thinking about it again—which is why it takes me a minute to notice that I’m the recipient of all sorts of covert glances.

  Even as the men are listening to Marcus talk about the fund’s returns, they’re eyeing me with expressions ranging from confusion (Ashton) to amusement (the Gyles brothers) to cynicism (Weston Long) to a peculiar mixture of the above (the rest).

  Did something happen, or did I commit some faux pas by going to the bathroom when I did?

  “Excuse me, gentlemen—and lady.” The waiter must not have spotted me at first, because the last bit is hastily tacked on. “Are you ready to order, or would you like a few more minutes?”

  Marcus looks up at him. “I think we’re ready. Unless—” He glances at me. “Emma, would you like a few more minutes?”

  “I’m good.” I smile widely to hide my nervousness. “Please start with someone else, and I’ll decide by the time it’s my turn.” I hope. I still have no clue what half of these words on the menu mean.

  Marcus seems to discern my dilemma because as the waiter starts taking everyone’s orders, he leans over and murmurs into my ear, “Would you like me to order for you, kitten?”

  “Yes, please,” I whisper back. “Nothing too exotic, okay? I don’t want snails.”

  He grins. “You got it.”

  When the waiter comes to us, he orders a Canette Sainte-Baume for himself and Coquilles St. Jacque for me, with Céléri rémoulade au crabe appetizer for us to share. I again wonder about the lack of prices on the menu, but decide it’s for the best. The cost of this appetizer alone might exceed my weekly grocery budget, so why stress myself unnecessarily?

  I’d rather not know how much Marcus is shelling out for this outing—though if it’s a business expense, it might be tax-deductible.

  “So, Emma,” Ashton says when the waiter leaves, and Grigori distracts Marcus by asking about his views on tech start-ups in China. “What do you do, and how long have you and Marcus been seeing each other?” As he speaks, he watches me intently, like I’m a puzzle he needs to figure out.

  Is that because of the Emmeline thing?

  Is he surprised that Marcus has been seeing us both?

  Pushing the stomach-churning thought out of my head, I pick up my wineglass and take a sip. “I work at a bookstore, and we met about a month ago. What about you? Marcus said you’ve known each other since business school?”

  “That’s right.” Ashton seems to shake off whatever was causing his confusion and gives me another one of his stunning smiles. “We were assigned to be partners on a project in Corporate Finance. As you’d expect, Marcus completely took over, and before I knew it, he had the whole thing done. I barely had to lift a finger—not that I wanted to. It was soon after that class that I figured out all that MBA bullshit’s not for me and dropped out.”

  My interest level spikes. “Really? You dropped out of business school?” That’s the last thing I would’ve expected from a man as successful as this. Not that there aren’t plenty of examples of high achievers dropping out of college—Bill Gates and Steve Jobs immediately come to mind—but business school is different. In my experience, people working on their MBAs tend to be more like Marcus: ambitious and laser-focused. They know what they want out of life, and the MBA is a stepping stone to get them there. Unless… “Was that because your business was starting to take off?”

  Ashton laughs. “Hardly. I had no business at the time, and I didn’t want one. Still don’t, but what are you going to do?” He sighs and drains his wine in a few long swallows. Setting the glass down, he says, “You know how some people fuck up everything they touch?”

  “Uh-huh.” Is he saying the fitness empire he’s building is a fuck-up on his part?

  “Well, that’s me in reverse. The Vancroft Midas touch turned out to be a genetic affliction. All I wanted was to be a personal trainer, get my clients healthy and fit. But then this happened.” He waves a hand with such a disgusted look that a laugh bubbles up my throat.

  “Unwanted riches, huh?”

  “Completely unwanted,” he says with a grimace. “My family just about had a conniption when I quit business school, but now my father’s proud of me. It’s awful.”

  I cluck my tongue. “You poor thing—or rich thing? Not sure what’s the appropriate expression of sympathy here.”

  He grins wryly, and I catch a glimpse of the man underneath the golden-boy, devil-may-care mask—a man who, in his own way, is as driven and ambitious as Marcus. No matter what Ashton says, his success is no accident of fate or genetics. He made it happen, even if he’s not ready to admit it to himself.

  “Did I hear some talk of unwanted riches?” Marcus says, turning toward us. With his dark hair neatly brushed back, his shirt perfectly starched, and his pinstriped suit fitting him like second skin, he looks completely at home in our ritzy surroundings—and, to my eyes, infinitely hotter than all the other men here put together. “Because as far as I’m concerned, there’s no such thing,” he continues, blue eyes gleaming with amusement. “And if a certain someone happens to have a problem of excess funds, I have the perfect solution.”

  Ashton chuckles. “Let me guess. I need to give all my money to you, so you can grow it and create an even bigger headache for me.”

  “You got it.” Marcus’s answering grin is all teeth. “So how about it? We can start with something small—say, five million—and go from there.”

  I nearly choke on t
he sip of wine I just took into my mouth. Five million is considered “small?”

  Ashton rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, the fucking money’s yours. Why else am I here tonight, right? But five mil won’t even make a dent in all this cash I’m swimming in. I’ll give you twenty to start, and if you don’t double it too quickly, I’ll give you more by Christmastime.”

  “I’ll do my best to keep your returns moderate,” Marcus says dryly, and across the table, the Gyles brothers, who must’ve been listening to the whole thing, burst into laughter.

  To my relief, the dinner goes smoothly from that point on. I share the delicious crab appetizer with Marcus and even brave a bite of Ashton’s escargot—he offers it to me upon learning that I’ve never tried the classic French dish. It’s surprisingly good, all garlicky and buttery, with a texture that reminds me of a firm mushroom.

  By the time the main course comes out, I feel infinitely more at ease, and I find myself chatting not only with Ashton, who’s sitting next to me, but also with most of the others at the table. For some reason, everyone is curious about how long Marcus and I have been dating and how we met, as well as what I do, and as I ask them questions in return, I find that Kendall was right.

  Rich people are, ultimately, just people.

  Grigori Moskov, the tech billionaire, immigrated to the United States as a child and still has some relatives in Russia. He’s also a serious dog lover; his Siberian husky travels with him everywhere—a major perk of owning a private plane, he explains. I show him pictures of my cats, and we bond over our furry companions, so much so that he teaches me how to say “cat” in Russian.

  It’s kot if male and koshka if female, though there are also about a million cute diminutives like kotik, kiska, kotyonok, and so on.

  Weston Long is a slightly tougher nut to crack. According to Ashton’s discreetly murmured explanation, the California-based real estate tycoon has just gone through an acrimonious divorce and thinks all women are after his money. That hits a bit too close to home for me, so I try to be polite but distant with him, and we end up discussing books—specifically, the latest mystery by my favorite author, who, as it turns out, is Long’s favorite as well.

  In contrast, the Gyles brothers—who are so alike in mannerisms and appearance that I have trouble thinking of them as separate individuals—are happy to talk about anything and everything under the sun. I soon learn that they are indeed old money (something to do with weapons manufacturing during World War II, though they’re vague about the specifics) and that they know every celebrity I can name. They also pry out of me the fact that I was raised by my grandparents after my mother was killed in an accident and that I don’t know my father. The only thing I’m keeping my mouth shut about is the name mix-up through which Marcus and I met; all I’ve been saying tonight is that we ran into each other at a restaurant in Brooklyn—on the off chance someone here knows Emmeline.

  The Gyles brothers seem to know everyone, so I wouldn’t be surprised.

  The most reserved of the bunch is Bob Johnson, the older guy who manages the pension fund, but after I talk to him for a bit, I see that he’s actually just shy. I warm up to him immediately—I love shy people—and by the end of the night, I know all about his two grown daughters and the infant grandson he adores, as well as his long career in the California school system. He was a math teacher for many years before going to work at some quant shop on Wall Street—from which he recently got hired to manage the Teachers’ Union pension fund.

  “Their investments are completely undiversified, very heavy on fixed income and blue-chip stocks,” he tells me, and I nod sympathetically, though I have only a vague idea of what that means. “They haven’t even considered hedge funds, can you believe that? No wonder they’re worried about being able to pay all the upcoming retirees’ pensions.”

  “Yeah, no wonder,” I echo, and that seems to be enough to keep him talking about the subpar returns the pension fund’s been getting and how he plans to change all that, starting with allocating a greater portion of their assets to higher-risk, higher-reward alternatives like Marcus’s fund.

  “That’s a great idea,” I tell him, and I mean it. I may not know much about diversification strategies and proper investment allocation, but I do know Marcus, and if anyone can ensure that all those teachers keep getting their pensions, he’d be the guy.

  Bob beams at me and starts using even more finance lingo, at which point Marcus joins the conversation, and I gladly focus on my coffee and dessert—which, thankfully, isn’t a single berry but a panna cotta with a layer of berries at the top.

  Finally, everyone’s done eating and drinking, and Marcus hands our waiter a credit card to cover the bill. A bill that has to be astronomical because most of the men have been ordering extra alcohol throughout dinner—brandy, whiskey, cognac—and I suspect they haven’t been getting the discount stuff.

  As Marcus is signing the receipt, I glance at the entrance and spot Janie standing there with her boyfriend, Landon. He looks exactly as I remember: tall, blond, and handsome in a thin-lipped, country-club sort of way. Both he and Janie are staring at me open-mouthed—I’m guessing because of the company I’m with. Smiling, I wave to them, and Janie hesitantly smiles and waves back. Landon leans down to whisper something in her ear. My friend looks uncertain, but he gives her a slight push, and she heads toward me, with him following.

  I stand up to greet them as they approach. “Hi again, Janie. And hello, Landon. It’s good to see you,” I say, extending my hand toward him with a polite smile. I have a strong suspicion he’s not here for me but rather my companions—a suspicion that’s instantly corroborated because as soon as he shakes my hand and mumbles, “Good to see you,” his gaze homes in on my date and it’s as if I don’t exist.

  “Landon Worth,” he announces, sticking out his hand at Marcus. “I’m Emma’s friend.”

  Marcus’s eyebrows rise as he glances at me, but I keep my face blank. There’s no way I’m claiming this guy I barely know as a friend. I’m beginning to form a theory as to why Janie disappeared after they started dating, and it’s not a good one.

  Marcus’s return introduction is curt, the handshake brief. “Marcus Carelli.”

  “And this is my friend from college, Janie Brandt,” I say, gesturing toward her. “We ran into each other in the ladies’ room earlier.” Pre-Landon, I would’ve introduced her as “one of my best friends,” but it’s hard to consider someone your BFF when you haven’t spoken to her for six months—and she hasn’t returned most of your texts.

  “Nice to meet you, Janie,” Marcus says, shaking her hand with a much warmer expression. Meanwhile, Landon goes around the table introducing himself to Marcus’s investors and handing out gold-lettered business cards. “In case you ever need some M&A or IPO advice,” he says to Weston Long with a wink. “My team at Goldman just launched the Guru IPO, you know.”

  Everyone is polite to him, but I can tell nobody’s particularly impressed. These men must run into dozens of Landons daily; with their wealth, there’s no avoiding all the ass kissers and favor seekers. Still, I feel a little dirty watching Landon’s blatant efforts to ingratiate himself, and Janie looks uncomfortable too.

  Thankfully, the ickiness doesn’t last long. Everyone was getting ready to leave anyway, and Landon’s arrival merely accelerates the inevitable. Within minutes, everyone heads out, leaving me and Marcus with Janie and her boyfriend.

  “So,” Landon says, smiling wide enough to swallow a boat. “How about the four of us grab a drink? There’s a nice bar over at—”

  “Maybe another time,” Marcus says as the waiter fetches our coats. He turns to my friend. “Janie, it was nice to meet you. I hope we see you again soon.”

  And placing a hand on my lower back, he ushers me out of the restaurant and into the waiting car.

  31

  Marcus

  Once we’re inside the car, Emma closes her eyes with a weary sigh, and I pull her to me, letting her
head rest on my shoulder.

  “Tired?” I ask, stroking her soft curls. A flowery fragrance wafts toward me, something unfamiliar but pleasant, though it does give me a tickling sensation in my nostrils.

  “I’m exhausted.” Emma’s voice is muffled as she burrows deeper into my neck. “I haven’t socialized this intensely since Kendall’s twenty-fifth birthday party.”

  Twenty-fifth birthday party? For some reason, I keep forgetting that my kitten’s almost a decade younger, with friends to match. I’m not exactly cradle-robbing here, but there is a definite difference between thirty-five and twenty-six. At my age, marriage and family are the norm, even in career-minded New York City, while most of Emma’s peers are too busy finding themselves to entertain such notions.

  No wonder it’s so hard to get her to commit. She’s used to boys who don’t know what the fuck they want, not men who recognize a good thing when they see it.

  “Well, you did amazing regardless. They all loved you,” I tell her, and it’s the truth. I suspected Ashton and the others would like Emma once they got to know her, but it took less than an hour for her to charm their socks off. Even notoriously stiff Bob Johnson was smiling by the end, and before he left, he gave me a verbal commitment for an additional $150 million—about $100 million more than I hoped to get from him at this stage.

  My kitten didn’t just entertain him with small talk; she got him to increase his allocation to my fund.

  “Really?” She raises her head and blinks owlishly. “I felt so clueless with all that finance talk around me. I thought for sure—”

  A sneeze comes upon me so suddenly I barely have a chance to turn away. It’s immediately followed by another, and I realize what that tickling sensation in my nose means.

  “Did you spray on some perfume tonight?” I ask nasally, grabbing a tissue from a box in the back and pressing it to my nose as I move away from Emma. My throat is itching now too, and my eyes are beginning to water; whatever my kitten used is potent stuff.