Penthouse Player

by Tara Leigh

  His flashed a dimple at me. “Grey Goose.” He gestured at the bottle on the table, what looked like decanters of orange and cranberry juice, and the ice bucket with a set of silver tongs dangling over the side. “Want me to make you a cocktail?”

  I put my hand up. Vodka would be the death of me right now. “I’m good, thanks.”

  Bryce shrugged, wincing slightly, again, as he reached for the carafe. “I didn’t used to be much of a drinker. But with this shoulder, the only things that help are booze and pills. That and being on the ice. I don’t even feel it then.”

  “You’re not supposed to mix the two, you know. Alcohol and painkillers.”

  He blinked. “You a doctor, too?”

  “No. Just a concerned sis—” I caught myself. “—citizen.”

  He lifted his glass. “To a very beautiful concerned citizen. And the bastard—I mean, friend—who is very lucky to have her.”

  My brother was quite the charmer. We clinked glasses.

  “Are your parents still married?” I asked, angling the conversation toward my mother. What role had she played in Bryce’s life? He was already in college at the time of their marriage, so probably not much. But as the disgruntled child she’d left behind, I needed to know what she’d left me for. Every painful detail.

  “No. They divorced a long time ago. Both are remarried now. The holidays are real fun.” He flashed a grin. “How about yours?”

  “My family is . . . complicated,” I said evasively. “Are you close with your stepparents?”

  “Ah, no,” he said, accompanied by a derisive rumble.

  An unfamiliar pang of sympathy hit me on my mother’s behalf. On second thought, maybe I didn’t need to know every detail. Time to change the subject. “So, how long have you known Tristan?”

  “As long as I can remember.”

  “I knew it.”

  Bryce cocked his head to the side. “What?”

  “I knew there had to be some sort of preschool for all of you.”

  “All of us?”

  “All you hedge fund heirs and venture capital cubs.”

  He cocked his head to the side. “Investment banking babies? Private equity progeny?”

  “Tycoon toddlers!”

  “Financier families!”

  We were laughing now, holding our bellies, doubling over as we shouted out financial phrases.

  “Law partner progeny!”

  “Ha! We said progeny already. No repeats,” I wheezed.

  “Ok, I think I’ve got one more left in me. CEO scions.”

  I grinned. “Me too. High net worth whippersnappers.”

  We high-fived across the table, giggling like the drunken fools we were. The girl at his side finally had enough and stalked off. We laughed even harder.

  “Sorry for ruining your chances tonight.”

  Bryce wiped at his eyes. “I’ve never been so happy about getting ditched.”

  “Speaking about being ditched, where’s Tristan?” I unzipped my purse and fumbled for my phone.

  Things r more complicated than I hoped. Let me know when u r ready to go home. Will send car.

  I read it several times, sighing. “Doesn’t look like he’s coming back any time soon.”

  Bryce was looking at his phone too. “Nope.”

  “He said I’m supposed to let him know when I’m ready to leave.”

  “Are you ready to leave?”

  I eyed the text, then Bryce. Tonight was going so well. When would I have another chance to get drunk and silly with my only brother? “Nope.”

  Tristan

  I left the cyber stalking to Dale and Tim, and tried to set my feelings for Reina aside. If the worst was true, if she really was an agent of Van Horne’s, then the only thing that mattered was saving Bettencourt. Much more was at stake than my heart or my pride. Perhaps equal parts burden and gift, I’d been born into a banking dynasty. And I wasn’t going to be the cause of its downfall.

  There was one thing investors cared about more than anything else—the bottom line. They wanted significant returns on their money. So rather than twiddle my thumbs while I waited for more news, I did what I did best—managed Millennial’s investment portfolio.

  Dale and Tim slunk into my office after an hour. Reina had been talking with Van Horne, whether Gayle or Gerald they still couldn’t say, on a weekly basis for at least the past year.

  “And her finances? Any large deposits lately?”

  “We . . .” They looked at each other, then back at me. “We haven’t gotten that far yet. The information you want takes time, but we’re close.”

  I cursed. “Come back to me when you do, or in another hour, whichever is sooner.” I picked up my phone as they scurried away, and opened up my text messages. The most recent were the ones I’d written to Reina and Bryce. I stared down at my purposely vague words, then tossed the offensive device on my desk.

  Kyle leaned against the open door. “Anything?”

  I repeated what I’d learned. He whistled. “Tough break.”

  “Why? You weren’t exactly a fan of us being together.”

  “Maybe not. But I like Reina. And I know that she makes you happy. Believe me, I was getting used to the two of you.” He sighed. “There’s something off with all of this. I just can’t see her being a pawn in Van Horne’s game.”

  “Same here—at least not willingly. It’s going to kill me if those two jackasses prove us wrong.”

  Kyle nodded, patting the doorjamb as he walked back out to his desk without saying anything further.

  About half an hour later, I couldn’t take it anymore. Fuck it. Why was I waiting for two tech nerds to tell me what Reina already knew? Was she a spy for Van Horne or wasn’t she? And if not, why was she talking to his wife? I bolted from my office, in search of the one person who could answer all my questions. But would she?

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  @BettencourtBets: Bet IVy got quite the shock when he checked out Page Six this morning!

  Tristan

  The VIP lounge at Ceilo’s was now packed, and it took at least twenty minutes to determine that Bryce and Reina were nowhere to be found. And neither of them were answering their phones. After confirming with the bouncers that they had left together, something I should have done before wasting my time looking upstairs, I headed back to the car only to realize that I didn’t even know which apartment was Reina’s. Thankfully, Kyle was able to look it up on Bettencourt’s internal database.

  My car pulled up outside a non-doorman building in Morningside Heights, the kind with a steel panel and intercom outside the front door. No answer at her unit, so I did the only sane thing. I pressed every other button until the front door opened with a buzz. Her apartment was on the highest of five floors, with no elevator in sight, a fact I found inordinately pleasing despite my pounding pulse. Surely if Reina was playing me, between her Bettencourt signing bonus and salary, plus her take from Van Horne, she’d be living in a much nicer place.

  Banging on her door yielded only an irate neighbor. Several, in fact. As I was tapping out a WHERE R U? text to Reina, it vibrated in my hands. Dale. Or Tim. I still couldn’t tell which was which.

  “What did you find out?”

  “Reina St. James has over a hundred thousand dollars in debt, mostly from student loans, and the only large deposit was her signing bonus from Bettencourt. She put almost all of it toward her debt.”

  No money from Gerald, or any of his companies, including Bull Capital. That put a small dent in my suspicions. “Good work. And how about the phone registered to Van Horne?”

  “It’s not used very often, and almost all of the calls are to Saks Fifth Avenue, Neiman Marcus, and a few florists. Also various spas and doctors’ offices, mostly dermatologists and plastic surgeons.”

  I grinned. Reina wasn’t a plant for Bull Capital, although nothing I had learned explained her connection with Gayle Van Horne. But still, I was pleased.

  “Do you mind if we go ho
me now? We can get back to it tomorrow.”

  I looked at the time. Shit. It was late. “Of course. See you tomorrow.” Where the fuck was Reina?

  I hunkered down on the floor outside Reina’s apartment, expecting to hear her footfalls on the stairs any minute. I was sick of other people telling me about Reina—her call history, her financials, her past. Enough was enough. The only person from whom I wanted to learn about Reina, was Reina. She’d always held a part of herself back from me and I’d let it slide. But I was tired of being an open book, biding my time until she was ready to open up. I was well past my expiration date on waiting. And damn it, she had better be home soon.

  I thought I’d gotten past my fear that Reina was just another Trophy-Wife-In-Training. Our relationship had progressed, but only by taking two steps forward and one step back. Were there land mines of dogshit littering our path? Had I just stepped in one?

  Over the next hour, I demolished my inbox. Responded to everything that needed a response, sorting and deleting until there was not a single email left. Midnight became one a.m. I logged into Bettencourt’s internal server, combing through research reports I’d been meaning to get to for days. By two, my phone was dead. Eventually, fighting the pull of my eyelids, I abandoned my stakeout, mostly in the hopes that Reina would be waiting for me at my apartment by the time I got there.

  This was not normal. I was not the kind of guy that gave someone a mile of rope before wondering if I should look for a pair of scissors. I’d never sat outside a girl’s apartment for hours, waiting for her to show. I hadn’t given much thought to the relationships I had in the past, or the women I’d dated. They were easy, or convenient.

  Reina was neither of those things, and yet I didn’t care. She was mine.

  But was she? Alone in the back of a cab, in the middle of the night, I didn’t have a fucking clue.

  Reina

  I woke up, uncomfortably reminded of the morning after attending my first fraternity party my freshman year of college. Very uncomfortably.

  “Ow.” I rubbed at my forehead, then pressed the palms of my hands against my temples. It felt like the bubbles from all the champagne I’d consumed last night were trapped inside my skull, expanding with every second. An image of my overflowing glass appeared against the back of my eyelids. Then, like a movie, other scenes played out. Ceilo’s, Tristan leaving, continuing to drink with Bryce. Bryce. Oh no. Shit. I sat up, steeling myself against the shooting pain assaulting my brain. My last clear memory was leaving with him, and nearly falling down the same set of stairs I’d tripped on earlier. Bryce had caught me, though, just before I tumbled down the entire flight. Wait—I remember getting into a cab, but nothing after. I must have fallen asleep in the car. Shit, shit, shit. Way to make a good first impression.

  But I had a more pressing problem than embarrassing myself in front of my brother. Where the hell was I?

  I sure as hell wasn’t in my crappy little studio. And I wasn’t in Tristan’s modern loft. No. This room was dark, and not just because the sun had barely peeked above the horizon yet. Every stick of wood was mahogany, and embellished with claw feet, carved fretwork, and polished brass accents. I’d been sleeping in a sleigh bed, under a heavy gold duvet. The walls were covered in burgundy damask wallpaper, and even the trim was dark wood. The effect was very Men’s Club, and I wouldn’t have been surprised to see a foursome hovering in a corner playing poker, sipping cognac, and smoking cigars.

  Instead, I spotted Bryce. Still fully dressed, he was sprawled out in a chair, his feet propped up on an ottoman covered in gold paisley velvet.

  Oh no. Oh my God, no. I definitely wasn’t in a hotel room. And Bryce had said he didn’t keep a place in the City. Shit. Could I be at my parents’ apartment?

  As quietly as possible, I slipped out from under the covers. Picking up my shoes in one hand and my purse in the other, I tiptoed across the carpeted floor and gingerly opened the door, barely daring to breathe. The only thing that mattered right now was getting out of this place. Once outside Bryce’s room, I was confronted with a long hallway stretching to either side of the door. Right or left? My head swiveled, heart racing. I broke right, skipping across a series of Persian rugs as if they were lily pads on a lake.

  Until I ran into someone. Literally. I clapped a hand over my mouth, catching my scream before it ricocheted through the high-ceilinged hall. Thankfully, it wasn’t a Van Horne.

  “I’m so sorry,” I whispered to the shocked maid, dressed in a simple black uniform, but minus the white lace apron. “Are you okay?” She nodded yes. “Okay, great. That’s good. Um . . . how do I get out of here?” She pointed down another corridor. I swallowed, resisting the urge to ask her to lead me.

  But thankfully, this one was shorter, only two rugs to race across before I came to an oversized foyer and an elevator door. Of course they would have their own elevator rather than a front door leading to a shared hallway. The chime announced my exit with the dignity of a cowbell, and I scurried into the elevator, jabbing at the button for the lobby as I leaned into the corner, keeping my head low in case of cameras. This was not how I wanted to come face-to-face with Van Horne, scurrying from his son’s room, wearing wrinkled clothes and last night’s mascara.

  I yanked on my shoes as the elevator made its way down countless flights, my relief increasing with each one. The doorman stoically offered to get me a cab, not batting an eye at my disheveled appearance. But the sooner I was out of sight of his building, the better. By the time I jumped into the backseat of a taxi around the corner, I felt as if I’d run a marathon. Or at least sprinted over a dozen hurdles. Jesus.

  My phone was dead, although it was too early to call anyone, even Tristan. New York might be known as the city that never sleeps, but before six a.m., it runs on half-speed.

  Once safely back in my apartment, I headed straight for the shower. I was beyond hungover and welcomed the hot water sluicing over my scalp, pushing away the cobwebs in my mind. My memories were there, but hazy. Before I walked into work in an hour, I needed to get myself together.

  And I needed to come clean with Tristan. I had tried and failed again last night, before going with him to Ceilo’s. But if there was one thing hanging out with Bryce had proved, it was that nothing good came from keeping secrets. He was the older brother I’d always wanted, but thanks to my lapse in judgment last night, I was just his buddy’s drunk girlfriend. I didn’t know yet if I was willing to tear my mother’s world apart by telling her stepkids about me, but Tristan deserved to know the truth. Especially since Van Horne’s siege to Bettencourt was just a thinly veiled assault on me.

  I thought I was being so smart, burying my past and everything I was so ashamed of. Except that the boxes I used to hide my secrets were leaching hazardous toxins. I was poisoning myself and everyone around me.

  Tears mixed with the spray from my shower. Today was very likely my last day at Bettencourt, probably my last day with Tristan too. But he deserved to know the truth, once and for all.

  Would he still want me? I had a sinking feeling I wasn’t going to like the answer.

  Tristan

  Reina wasn’t at my apartment either. Even once I charged my phone, there were no missed calls, no voice mails, no texts. Nothing. Ditto for Bryce. I called them each one more time. Still nothing. Fuck it. I should have forced myself into bed. Or burned off my mounting frustration on the treadmill.

  Instead I grabbed a bottle of scotch and poured myself a stiff drink. And then another. After the second, I felt numb. And after the fourth, I felt nothing at all.

  Until the sound of my phone woke me from my drunken stupor, its shrill chirping pecking at my skull like a ravenous crow. I fumbled for my phone, still plugged into the charger on the end table beside my sofa. I’d never made it to bed. The lamp crashed to the ground as my fingers closed around the device, my thumb swiping the screen before I glimpsed the caller ID. “Reina?”

  “Hey, no. It’s me.” Kyle said. “Listen,
I’m sure you’re on your way into the office soon, and I—”

  Way too many words. “What time is it?”

  “Six-fifteen.”

  Fuck. “Yeah, I’ll be in within a half hour.” I sat up, trying to ignore the axe that crashed through my skull.

  “Oh. Okay. Fine. I just wanted to get your take on the whole Reina thing. I’m in your corner on this one, however you want to handle it.”

  “Yeah, about that. I heard back from Dale and Tim. I think we’re in the clear, Reina’s not an agent for Van Horne.”

  “Wait—you haven’t seen . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “Kyle, you’re killing me here. What’s going on?”

  He cleared his throat and I winced at the noise drilling into my ear. “Check out the latest BettencourtBets tweet. I’ll hold.”

  Alarm bells joined the fray as I read the noxious tweet . . . Hockey-playing heir to Bull Capital.

  “Goddamn it, Bryce,” I gritted out. If he’d so much as laid a hand on Reina I was going to rip him to shreds, injury or not. And then I clicked the link embedded in the text. With the speed of a caterpillar, two images came to life on my screen.

  “Tristan? Tristan, you still there?”

  Reina and me. Reina and Bryce. “Yeah, I’m here.”

  “How do you want to handle this? Should I call Reina, tell her not to come in?”

  My stomach twisted in knots as I examined the two photos. The last conversation I had with Dale, or was it Tim, had left me fairly confident that Reina wasn’t working with Van Horne. But was the truth even more painful? Has she spent the night with Bryce? I groaned, rubbing at the crease in my forehead as I thought back over the night. Reina had seemed interested in him, but it never felt as if they were flirting. I stood, anger eating away at my hangover.

  “No. None of this changes the fact that Van Horne is gunning for us. And if Reina is playing for their team, she’s not going to show up after being outed like this. Just sit tight, I’ll be in soon.”

  One of the first lessons I learned on the ice was to keep my head in the game. Always look for an opening to score, or a threat to eliminate. Focus on one thing at a time. Hitting the opposition hard, getting the puck, scoring a goal. Every game was just a series of plays, one after the other. But as I leapt into the shower, it was clear that playtime had come to an end. Everything that mattered to me was at risk. Reina. Millennial. Bettencourt. I’d always been good at compartmentalizing, but my skills were being pushed to the limit.