Penthouse Player

by Tara Leigh

  Tristan pulled at the bun I’d twisted so carefully that morning. I didn’t care. My head tilted back, giving him greater access. I moaned as he devoured me, wanting him with a fierceness that brought tears to my eyes. I reached down, desperate to take him in my hands.

  With a gruff curse, Tristan pulled away, backing up several steps into the interior of the oversized closet until he bumped against the opposite wall. “No. I won’t do this to you. Not here. Not now.”

  I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing came out. I felt like a sand castle struck by an incoming wave. My fancy turrets and arches collapsed, leaving just a mangled lump of wet sand sinking into the beach. I blinked at Tristan as the sound of our breaths filled the room. His hair stood on end, and there were faint scratches on his neck from my nails. He looked exactly like he’d been making out in the supply closet, and I had no doubt that I was his mirror image.

  “Obviously, something needs to happen between us. Soon. Preferably tonight, actually.”

  Endorphins ricocheted through my body like the ball in an old-fashioned arcade game. I’d tried to deny the chemistry between us, then suggested we ignore it. But to hell with that. It just wasn’t possible. I found my voice. “Someplace with a bed, or a couch.” I shrugged. “At least a rug, maybe a table.”

  Tristan chuckled, attempting to finger-comb his hair into place. “Last time I checked, my apartment had all four.”

  “Good. We can’t be seen together in public together. At least not outside of the office.”

  “About that. Bettencourt has more than one hedge fund you can work on. I’ll set you up with another portfolio manager or have you assigned to marketing or research, whatever you want.”

  I shook my head. That wasn’t what I wanted at all. “No. Please don’t. Your strategy is the one I feel most closely aligned with. I applied to Bettencourt hoping I’d have the opportunity to work on the Millennial Fund. This doesn’t have to be an either/or situation.” Taking a breath, I debated whether I should even verbalize the thoughts racing through my mind. Spit it out already. I forced words through my mouth in a rush. “Let’s just have sex tonight and get it out of our system. Then we can pretend it never happened and focus on work.”

  An aristocratic eyebrow arched upward. “You think that’s all it will take? One fuck and we won’t ever need to do it again?”

  I grinned at Tristan’s outraged expression. He even wore indignation well. “Okay, fine. Maybe we’ll have to do it more than once. But I just started here, and I intend to come out on the other side of this internship with a job offer. And I want it because I’ve proved myself on the Bettencourt trading floor, not in your bedroom. No one can know about us.”

  Tristan scowled. “Is there someone else? Maybe not a boyfriend, just a friends-with-benefits kind of thing? You seem pretty eager to keep us in the dark.”

  It’s what I know. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  Tristan tucked in his shirt, adjusted his sleeves. Skepticism darkened his eyes. “Casual sex, no strings attached. That’s what you want?”

  “I’m not exactly the next Mrs. Bettencourt, Tristan. I highly doubt your socialite stepmother would approve of me.”

  “Why?” Tristan seemed less than eager to take my words at face value. “Because you want to do more with your life than plan overpriced parties with bad food and watered-down drinks?”

  I looked down, a blush coloring my cheeks. If he knew that even my own mother wouldn’t be seen in public with me, he would feel differently. “Something like that.”

  Tristan

  Reina was a temptation I should resist. She was smart and confident and ambitious . . . And damn if she wasn’t the most beautiful woman I’d ever laid eyes on.

  It wouldn’t look great for me to be dating someone ten years younger, true. And yes, I wanted to date her, not hide with her in a supply closet. Hell, I’d partied with models not even old enough to drink and it had barely raised an eyebrow.

  But sleeping with a girl whose ID tag was stamped with my last name . . . It didn’t matter if it was consensual, it just looked sleazy. If only I could convince her to work for someone else—a different fund in a different group on a different floor—maybe it wouldn’t seem so tawdry. But not only had Reina flatly refused to work with anyone else, she seemed perfectly happy to keep our relationship in the dark. Insisted she didn’t want a relationship at all, actually. What was I, some kind of cheap fling? And no, the irony that she was treating me exactly the same way I had treated every woman I’d ever dated was not lost on me.

  “Fine. Call it what you want, but as long as we’re doing the horizontal mambo, I’m the only guy on your dance card. Got it?”

  Reina giggled. “Territorial, are we?”

  My jaw remained tight. This was a deal-breaker for me. “I was an only child until the age of ten, and I’ve never enjoyed sharing.”

  “Fine. And how about you?”

  “Me?”

  Reina’s lips were swollen from my kisses, her hair not nearly as neat as it had been a few minutes ago. “Yeah. Do you expect me not to care when you’re out with other women?”

  I faced down her indignant stare, only one thought coming to mind. Why the hell would I want to be with anyone else? My lips twitched. “So keep me busy.”

  * * *

  Giving Reina a few minutes to pull herself together as I casually stood guard outside the door, I calculated exactly how long I would have to suffer until Reina and I could, as she so elegantly directed, “get it over with.” The number of minutes was as odious as the phrase. How the hell I was going to get through the day, especially with Reina just inches away from me, I had no idea. After she exited and walked down the hall without so much as a backward glance, carrying an impressive stack of notebooks and pens, I swallowed my groan of frustration and headed back to my desk.

  The morning passed, and my night with Reina got closer and closer. Until pre-market opened in Sydney, and my best laid plans were blown to bits. Within minutes, anything influenced by China—which is everything—crashed. The plunge continued when New Zealand came online, rolling across time zones with the sun. Fears over China’s economic stability and weakening currency were like bullets striking down companies across the globe, including companies I had taken big positions in. Hour by hour, as each market began its trading day, the corporate carcasses piled up.

  Most people think investing is tied to the New York Stock Exchange. And it is. But it’s also tied to the London Stock Exchange, and those in Toyko, Frankfurt, Shanghai, Hong Kong, Toronto, and Sydney, just to name a few—not to mention the NASDAQ, Chicago Mercantile Exchange, and the innumerable off-exchange and over-the-counter markets. Regardless of time and place, the market value of my Millennial Fund, and every fund managed by Bettencourt or any other firm, changes by the second.

  The Shanghai exchange didn’t close until 4 a.m., New York time, allowing me just enough time to run home for a quick doze and a cold shower before heading back to the office. The next few days were much the same, and by the end of the week, I could barely see straight. But we succeeded in reversing the losses we’d taken, and even added a few gains. Just in time, too.

  And yet, no amount of fatigue could ease my hunger for Reina. Even with the jagged cliffs insulting me from my Bloomberg terminal, it was Reina’s soft curves I saw. I coped the only way I knew how, by tying a tourniquet around my desire so tightly I could barely feel my cock. But it was still there, and didn’t hesitate to let me know with every glimpse of her full lips, every whiff of her tantalizing perfume. It was like being a kid on Christmas Eve. Every day, for a week. Worse, even. Because I knew exactly what was beneath the shiny wrapping, the extravagant bows. Whisper-soft skin, pale pink nipples that begged for my kisses, legs for days. A mouth as sweet as mulled cider, and just as intoxicating.

  For most of that week, I felt less like a portfolio manager than an alcoholic tending bar. Temptation was always within reach. But one drink, one taste, and I’d
be lost. The stakes were too high. I couldn’t lose focus now. Not yet.

  With the lock-up period coming to an end, my current investors would soon have the option of cashing in their profits and taking their business elsewhere. Of course, my hope was that they would double down on their investment and write another check.

  With a year of performance under our belt, we were opening up the fund to new investors. Interest was high but until their cash was sitting in our account, it was all just talk. Which was why my team had put together a two-week road show. Given the current market turmoil, I was only taking a skeleton staff with me. The rest would have to stay behind to mind the store. I would have liked to stay back too, but potential investors expected to see the guy whose name would be on their statement.

  All this had left exactly zero time to follow up on my supply closet conversation with Reina, and as much as I hated it, I knew it was for the best. Millions of dollars were at stake, as was my reputation. I might be willing to risk an accusation of sexual harassment for engaging in a relationship with Reina, but focusing on my personal life to the detriment of Millennial was out of the question.

  Road shows were comprised of painfully agonizing presentations over breakfasts, lunches, dinners and nights out stroking the egos of anyone who might possibly be interested in parting with millions of dollars. Not that I was meeting with small-time, small-town investors who worried over every penny. Hedge fund managers were only interested in big game, and a road show was our African safari. At the last minute, I decided to take Reina, who had jumped in with both hands and already proven herself invaluable.

  Not that I was hoping for a few hours alone with her or anything.

  But so far, I was batting zero and my cock was making his frustration known. After arriving in Atlanta last night, I’d been practically held hostage by a friend from Cambridge who ran one of the largest institutional management funds in the South and acted like he was still in college. In addition to a throbbing headache, I woke up with a morning chub that had yet to be allowed out of the gate. Two strikes and I hadn’t even left my room yet.

  Beyond the hangover and sex-deprivation, I hadn’t managed more than two hours of sleep at a stretch for the past week. The knock at my door wasn’t unexpected, but I was moving slow. Still dripping from the shower, I answered the door with bleary eyes and a towel wrapped around my waist.

  Reina looked as immaculate as always, and, even better, she had a steaming cup of Starbucks in her hand. Coffee wasn’t usually my thing, but I could have mainlined caffeine just then.

  “Rough night?” she asked, her lips twitching.

  As the low man on the totem pole, I knew she’d spent most of the night in our hotel’s business center, making sure whatever presentations had been scheduled for today would go off without a hitch. But she still looked as fresh as if she’d gotten eight hours of sleep, or at least spent the morning at a spa. Neither of which, I knew, had happened.

  I shook my head. “What’s up with these people? I swear they must only get out a few nights of the year. None of them wanted to go back home to their wives. It was ridiculous.”

  Reina leaned back against the door, prompting a flashback of the all-too-fleeting moment I’d had her up against my apartment door, trembling and breathless. Mine.

  I drew her into me, setting my coffee on a nearby table. For propriety’s sake we were staying in different rooms, and unfortunately, they weren’t even adjoining.

  “Oh no.” Reina smoothly sidestepped my advances. “You have an on-camera interview this morning. We need to be in the car in twenty minutes.”

  With anyone else, I might’ve replied that I could be quick. But Reina made me want to take my time. One minute she was as haughty as Eastern European royalty, and the next she exuded more sex appeal than a Sports Illustrated cover model. I found her contradictions as erotic as her curves. “Fine.” I let the towel drop just before walking into the closet to get dressed.

  “While you were off getting lap dances—”

  I poked my head through the open door. “For the record, I did not get a single lap dance. I just paid for them.”

  “Okay,” she strung out the word. “On the off chance your late-night exploration of Atlanta’s bar scene comes up, let’s not mention that you bankrolled the exploitation of women.”

  I chuckled. “If this interviewer expects a recounting of my late-night exploits at all, he’s booked the wrong guest.”

  “Actually, it’s a she. And as I was saying, I’ve reviewed footage from most of her interviews. She hasn’t been a money honey for long.”

  “Money honey?” I practically choked as I adjusted my tie.

  “Come on, you’ve heard the term. It’s the same thing as using gorgeous girls with big boobs to stand on the sidelines of a football field in the hopes that a player will talk to them instead of a guy in a suit. And quite frankly it’s a smart move, they usually get more from their interviews than boring financial statistics anyone with a smartphone can look up for themselves.”

  Oh, I’d heard it. I’d just never heard it come out of Reina’s mouth. Swallowing a curse, I unknotted my sorry excuse for a Windsor and tried again. “So you think this money honey is going to ask me about more than just my fund’s performance or investment strategy?”

  “Actually, yeah, I do. She might not use all of her footage on their show, but if she gets anything juicy out of you, you can be sure she’ll find a place to run it.”

  I gave a terse nod, now dreading the on-camera interview. Shrugging into my jacket, I reached for the door.

  Reina put down her cup. “Let me,” she whispered, her voice as husky as I remembered it being after I kissed her. She stepped forward to adjust my tie, the tip of her tongue poking through her full lips as she concentrated on straightening the knot.

  “You are amazing,” I breathed, the compliment slipping out, completely unplanned.

  She looked up, startled. “What do you mean?”

  I hadn’t intended to say it, but it was the truth. “This is what, your second week on the job? How is it possible that you’re getting everything right? In the office, you’re among the first to arrive and the last to leave, and now out on the road you’re thinking ahead, watching back-footage of reporters and researching potential investors’ allergies, for God’s sake.”

  Reina blushed. Last night we had planned to eat at a well-known seafood restaurant, but she’d discovered that one of the men we’d invited had a shellfish allergy and suggested changing our reservation to a steakhouse instead. True, she wasn’t delving into the investing aspect of the business yet, but she was finding a million other ways to be useful, indispensable even.

  “Sometimes things just fall into place, I guess.”

  In my mind, I envisioned her in my bed, platinum blond hair spread across my sheets like paint strokes on canvas. And when I met her eyes, I could tell she knew exactly what I was thinking.

  “You had better not look at the reporter like that. The camera will read you as well as I am, and you’ll come across as a horndog on national television.”

  I raised my eyebrows, leering exaggeratedly. “Maybe I am.”

  She poked a manicured fingernail into my chest. “And don’t look at me like that in front of anyone else either.”

  I fought the urge to put her hand somewhere infinitely more pleasant. “You know, I’ve never dated a girl who was ashamed of being seen with me in public. It’s quite humbling.”

  “I’m not ashamed, Tristan. And we’re not dating, either.”

  I leaned down, breathing in the light floral scent clinging to her skin, her hair whisper soft against my freshly shaven cheek. “You’re always so perfect, so buttoned up. I’m counting the minutes until you fall apart in my arms.”

  The vein running just beneath Reina’s nearly translucent skin pulsed furiously, and I didn’t miss the quick hiss of her breath. Losing my internal battle, I pressed her hand against my already straining zipper. “Last time
I checked, I still had something to prove to you—and I intend to follow through.”

  The twinkle of mischief in Reina’s eyes pleased me, although I would have preferred them clouded with desire. “And I’m looking forward to it,” she said with a wink, before reaching around me to open the door herself. “But first, you’ve got to pet the money honey.”

  Reina

  From behind the cameras, I watched Tristan as he controlled the interview without actually appearing controlling. No small feat when the reporter was peppering him with questions not just about his company, but that delved deep into his personal life. He was letting her in a little farther than I would have expected, but seeing how they embraced as if they’d known each other for years when he walked on set, maybe it wasn’t surprising.

  How does it feel wearing the mantle of four generations of internationally renowned banking geniuses on your shoulders? Is there anyone “special” in your life? And has your recent success strained your relationship with your father, whose own fund outperformed the market, but not by nearly the same margin as the Millennial Fund?

  Somehow he answered them all with poise and wit, deflecting just enough to keep things professional. Several times, Tristan had to steer their conversation back to Millennial, and the fact that they would be opening the fund up to new investors soon. But he did it so graciously that by the end of the segment, resident money honey Wendy Whitaker was practically purring.

  “You were flawless,” I reassured him later, after his mike had been turned off and unclipped from the inside of his lapel, hoping I didn’t sound as awestruck to his ears as I did to my own.

  Tristan gave a nod of thanks, then scratched his cheek. “I hadn’t realized Wendy would be doing the interview. We go way back.”

  “Small world.” I would have loved to know more, and had to force myself not to pry. At least not while we were still in the television studio. I had a connection to Wendy, too, but doubted she would welcome me with open arms as she had Tristan.