Manhattan Mogul: A New York City Romance

by Tara Leigh

  His sly stare burns away the top layer of my skin, leaving me exposed and vulnerable. “I think you just did.”

  “I shouldn’t have, then. We shouldn’t have. This was a mistake.”

  “I don’t believe in mistakes.”

  Where is the elevator? My eyes dart around for the entrance to a stairwell. “Oh no? What do you call acting on impulse and regretting it immediately afterward?”

  “Instinct. It’s the body’s way of telling you what your mind might not understand yet. And we already agreed that my instincts are spot on.”

  A small chime announces my impending escape, relief flooding my veins. “Impulse, instinct,” I say, “call it whatever you want, but it’s never going to happen again.” I press the button for the lobby, desperately needing to sever this strange pull I feel toward a man I’ve only known a few hours.

  Nash’s arm shoots out just as the elevator door is about to close, his eyes drilling into me. “Never say never.” They maintain contact even as he angles his jaw toward the interior of his apartment. “Jay!” he yells.

  His driver is already hurtling around the corner. “I’ve got her, Boss.”

  “Only on loan, Jay. Handle with care.”

  Chapter 4

  Nash

  A loan.

  That would imply that Nixie is already mine—which she isn’t. Yet.

  And she called our kiss a mistake—which is also wrong.

  It’s a beginning.

  Maybe.

  Truth be told, I could probably use a new beginning. It has to be better than another ending, anyway. I’ve had enough of those.

  It takes a minute for me to move after the elevator doors close. I’m still leaning against the wall, my hand itching for contact with something beyond lifeless plaster, as Nixie hurtles downward through the air-locked shaft. Away from me.

  Even if the name on Nixie’s ID is fake, the woman who trembled in my arms for a mere minute before ducking out of them, her topaz eyes glittering with desire, her mouth as hungry as mine, is all too real.

  I allow myself a last few seconds to indulge in the image of Nixie that’s somehow been tattooed on the back of my eyelids. And then I draw in a deep breath, open my eyes, and push off the wall. Walking past the opening to the kitchen, I spare a glance inside. Greta already has it back to its pristine, sterile state. Not a single drop of syrup mars the sparkling surface, no plates or bowls cluttering the countertop.

  She looks up, a spray bottle of cleaner in her hand. “Do you want something, Mr. Knight?”

  Do I want something? Yeah. Something. Someone, actually.

  I spin on my heel without answering and head for my treadmill, pumping up the speed and incline and giving myself over to the pure physical exertion of running. One mile slips by, then two, then five. The only thing racing faster than my feet is my brain.

  At my core I’m an analyst. I take reams of numbers and data and crunch them so tightly that the only thing left is answers to my questions, bookended by dollar signs. Buy or sell? Dump or hold? How much?

  The data I grapple with this morning is simple. Nixie is gorgeous, in a fresh-faced, girl-next-door way. Not usually my type. I prefer women who walk into a room like an advertisement. Tell me everything I need to know in one appraising glance.

  Long ago, I decided to live my life free from unnecessary complications—and Nixie is complicated-with-a-capital-C.

  Slamming my hand over the emergency stop button, I jump off the machine and head for the shower.

  As of last week, I am the newest member of Wall Street’s Forty Under Forty list. The company I built from nothing, Knight Ventures, is now one of the most respected and feared companies in Manhattan, but there is another list I intend to crack—Billionaires Under Forty—and I have about two hundred million reasons to avoid anything, or anyone, who might take my eyes off the prize.

  No matter how captivating her smile.

  No matter how sweet she tastes.

  No matter how much I want to know if her name really is Nixie.

  My phone rings just as I step out of the shower, the screen lighting up with an image of my niece and nephew that sends an automatic pang to my chest. Madison and Parker are my younger brother Wyatt’s kids. Twins he never had the chance to meet. I wrap a towel around my hips and answer the call from Eva, their mother.

  I keep my life free from unnecessary complications because I already have a few very necessary ones. “Hey.”

  “Are you in town?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, maybe it’s because I haven’t seen you in nearly two weeks and you were supposed to come over last night. The kids miss you.” Eva and my brother never had the chance to marry, but I think of her as my sister-in-law.

  I scrub a palm over my face, guilt welling up inside my gut. I completely forgot. “Shit, sorry. I got caught up.”

  “I thought you said family was everything, Nash. We don’t deserve to be last on your list.” Disappointment, not anger, suffuses her words.

  A regretful sigh leaves my lungs. “I did. And you’re not. Last night was . . .” I try to think of a word that might possibly encapsulate why I blew off my obligations in favor of a stranger I literally picked up off the street, finally settling on, “unexpected.”

  “I know September eleventh is hard for you. You shouldn’t spend it alone.”

  I wasn’t alone. “I managed, but I should have thought to call. I’ll make it up to you.”

  “How about this afternoon?”

  I pull the phone away from my ear and glance through the calendar my assistant maintains, divided into fifteen minute increments. I am double-and triple-booked all day until a late business dinner. “Sure. Why don’t I pick up the kids this afternoon and give you a break. I’ll take them for an early dinner and ice cream and have them back before their bedtime.” My assistant will have to make adjustments.

  “That sounds— Oh, shoot. I forgot that they have a birthday party after school today. I’m afraid even their Uncle Nash isn’t enough to complete with two hours in a warehouse with a dozen oversized inflatables and all their friends.”

  “Turned down by two four-year-olds, huh? What happened to my boyish charm?”

  “A little rejection will do your ego some good, Nash,” she deadpans.

  “Don’t worry, my ego has taken a few hits lately.”

  “Oh, really? From whom?”

  I want to take my words back. There’s absolutely no reason to tell Eva about Nixie. “No one important,” I bluff.

  Thankfully, she lets it drop. “How about tomorrow?”

  My stomach sinks. Tomorrow definitely won’t work. A company caught my eye recently, one that’s an unusual acquisition for me, and the owner requested a face-to-face meeting. “Can’t. I’m flying to Nebraska in the morning, and then on to Hong Kong for due diligence on a product launch.”

  “Nebraska and Hong Kong. Quite the travel itinerary.”

  I shrug. “In my business, you follow the money. How about this weekend? Saturday?”

  “Yep, that works.” A smile creeps into Eva’s voice. “But I don’t need a break from my own kids. Mind if I come too?”

  Do I? Not exactly. I enjoy having them all to myself sometimes. And things with Eva have been a little tense lately. But she’s Madison and Parker’s mother, and will always be a part of my life. “Of course not. See you then.”

  I hang up the phone and reach for the nearest suit in my closet. Seven minutes later, I’m walking out of my apartment. Jay isn’t back yet, and I’m grateful for the fresh air. Technically, I don’t need a driver on days when I don’t have to get to the airport or various meetings around the city. But Reggie asked me to keep an eye on Jay. Said he reminded him of me, back in the day. And although I started him in the training program in my office, it quickly became obvious he wasn’t cut out for a desk job.

  The truth is, Reggie has sent a number of kids my way, and I always find a place for them. Sure,
Knight Ventures employs its share of Ivy League grads, but my best hires are always the kids that had come up from the streets, like me.

  Fighters who just need a worthwhile target.

  My office is only about a mile from my apartment building and I make quick work of the distance this morning, Eva’s words biting at my heels the entire way.

  You were supposed to come over last night.

  The kids miss you.

  We don’t deserve to be last on your list.

  True, true, true. All true.

  And all the more reason to stay away from Nixie. Fuck data. I need to keep my priorities straight. Madison and Parker are what matter. Them, and my business. So what if I want Nixie? My wants, my needs—they don’t matter anymore. I can’t have her. End of story. Move the fuck on.

  “Simmons,” I bellow, blowing by my assistant’s desk. I’m at least an hour later than usual, and my office is already buzzing with activity. “Move the dinner in Hong Kong from Saturday to Friday. I have to be back in New York.”

  Katherine Simmons could be Greta’s sister. Over the years, I’ve realized it isn’t a good idea to work closely with attractive women. They usually want to be the future Mrs. Knight much more than a current colleague. They are a distraction, and inefficient. Like Greta, Katherine consistently focuses on the task at hand, and keeps my life at work running as smoothly as Greta does at home. Except when I fuck with all her plans.

  She doesn’t blink an eye when I tell her about my dinner date with Eva and the kids, though. “Should I have Jay run over to FAO Schwartz and pick up a few gifts for you to bring them?”

  I look up from my computer screen. “You want to let Jay loose in a toy store? I’ll wind up bringing them that enormous floor piano from Big and a ride-on SUV. Eva would have a heart attack and I’d never be allowed to see them again.”

  Katherine allows a brief smile. She has a soft spot for Madison and Parker. Everyone does. “I’ll research the most popular educational toys that aren’t loud or large or dangerous, and order them myself. Jay will only have to pick them up.”

  I nod. “Thanks.” Those kids deserve all the presents in the damn store, but I love them too much to turn them into entitled, spoiled brats. They are my world, and the only people I dare to truly love.

  Nixie

  Jay doesn’t say much on the ride, not that he doesn’t try. But it’s hard to carry on a conversation with someone who can barely string two words together.

  Because I can’t. My hands are shaking so badly I can barely buckle my seatbelt.

  Getting out of Manhattan is an improvement, though. Especially lower Manhattan, where the Freedom Tower is visible from just about every corner. The tallest gravestone in the world, its hulking shadow teeming with ghosts.

  By the time we pull up to my building, I find my voice and thank Jay. Bonus, I also manage to scoot out of the ridiculously high living-room-on-wheels without twisting my ankle or pulling a stitch.

  I live on the fourth floor of a five-floor walk-up, and my upstairs neighbor is an octogenarian who has lived in the same apartment since the building was completed. Mrs. Dwyer doesn’t believe in carpeting, and she loves her kitten-heeled slippers. And today, I’ll bet she can climb these stairs father than I can.

  I’m winded and sweating, holding my side when I finally make it into my apartment. I fall back against my closed door, my hair a loose tangle down my back that softens the hardness of the wood against my shoulder blades.

  Click, clack. Click, clack.

  I stare up at the ceiling. And I smile.

  Mrs. Dwyer can clickety-clack the whole damn day for all I care.

  I’m home. Safe. Free.

  Alone.

  Dropping my purse on the scratched wooden floor, warped from poor craftsmanship and a revolving door of inhabitants over too many years, I survey my home of the past few months. It’s a rectangular box one-quarter the size of Nash’s kitchen, with barely enough room for the twin bed I shoved up against a wall and the plywood board sitting across two saw-horses I use as a desk. An easel is pushed close to the window, and a half-size refrigerator has been squeezed between a sink and stove, crooked cabinets hanging above.

  Home sweet home.

  My apartment might be a crappy hovel, but at least it’s mine.

  There’s an added bonus, too—

  My ex wouldn’t be caught dead in Brooklyn, certainly not in a place like this. He’ll never look for me here.

  For a few moments, I just breathe. Closing my eyes, my lungs expand and contract, expand and contract, to the rhythmic clickety-clack of Mrs. Dwyer’s heels.

  By this time next year, I’ll have access to my inheritance. And then I can afford to erect my own damn Freedom Tower if I want to. Barricade myself behind thick walls and tinted windows.

  Not in New York City, of course. A few million dollars won’t go very far here. But there has to be a place where I can find refuge. And I’ll find it.

  But until then, I intend to shield myself from men with silver tongues and black hearts. Avoid drama and unnecessary complications. My plan is to go to school, go to work, come home, live quietly.

  Last night is a reminder that I can’t afford to let my guard down, not even for a second. I exhale, sending a shudder of oxygen through my constricted lungs, and glance at the clock. Debating whether or not to spend the day in bed. I’m taking a few classes at Pratt in the mornings, mostly mediums I ignored during my undergraduate days, so that my afternoons are free to paint and work.

  Over the past few years, I’ve had a few galleries showcase my work—mostly large, mixed-media canvases—and they sold relatively well. But artist exhibits are well publicized affairs. Impossible for me now. So I opened my own Etsy shop, selling watercolor paintings I create from a customer’s own photograph. Houses, families, family pets. It’s something I used to do for fun, almost like doodling. But apparently it’s a product people are more than willing to pay for. Which is a relief.

  Williamsburg might be a huge step down from Manhattan’s inflated real estate market, but even hovels didn’t come free when you’re within commuting distance to the financial capital of the world.

  I decide to go to class and manage not to think about Nash—much—the rest of the day. He’s an anomaly, an unexpected quirk in the sedate pattern to my days. And in another week, another month, he’ll be a memory. The sharp outlines of his face blurring at the edges until they’re indistinct, his features turning vague. An idea, more than a man.

  And it makes me a little sad. Maybe more than a little.

  When I return to my apartment, my hands reach for my sketchpad and charcoal pencils before my mind catches up with what I’m doing. I flip to a fresh page and start drawing from memory. I begin by dragging the tip of my thinnest pencil over the page, quickly capturing the shape of Nash’s skull, the exact angle of his cheekbones as they narrow to his jaw, the shape of his eyes and slope of his nose. I toss that pencil aside and grab a thicker one, filling in his hair and eyebrows and the thick fringe of his lashes. Finally, I reach for a charcoal nub, about the size of a small river rock, to shade the shadows and valleys of his face, and add depth to his hairline.

  Nash Knight.

  I’m smiling down at him, glad that I chose pencil instead of paint. What I love about watercolors—their dreamy, romantic quality—wouldn’t have translated well to Nash. He is strong lines and sharp contrasts. Black and white suits him perfectly.

  And I feel better, knowing I can pull out my sketch whenever I feel the need to see his face. I won’t see him in person ever again, but at least I have this.

  When my cell rings a moment later, I grab for it through a haze of distraction— which evaporates instantly at the name flashing across my screen. Son of a bitch. “You didn’t just go through my wallet—you snooped through my phone, too?”

  The voice on the other end of the line is calm and measured, completely unconcerned by my censure. “I didn’t snoop. I programmed my number into
your contacts, and your number into mine.”

  “You had no right to do that” I snap my notebook closed, flinging it halfway across the room in disgust.

  “That’s the downside of facial recognition. I pointed the phone at your face and, abracadabra, I was in.”

  “Don’t you have any boundaries?”

  “What are those?” I’m about to hang up when his soft chuckle comes through the line. How can I hang up on a sound like that? I want to record it, make it my ringtone. On second thought, my phone doesn’t ring nearly enough these days to enjoy it much. “Besides, I wanted to check in on you.”

  “You don’t have to, I gave Dr. Carmichael my number.”

  “Has he called yet?”

  “It’s only been a few hours.”

  Nash gives a noncommittal grunt. “I don’t like to leave loose ends hanging.”

  “Last night I was a liability, today I’m a loose end. You really know how to flatter a girl, don’t you?”

  “Is that what you want from me?”

  “How many times do I have to tell you? I don’t want anything from you.”

  “But you answered my call.”

  “I should hang up.”

  “You haven’t yet. Tell me, what are your boundaries?”

  Good question. “Spending the night in a stranger’s bed, for starters.”

  “Probably a good one to have.”

  “How about you?”

  “Bringing unconscious women to my bed.”

  “We’re quite a pair then, breaking boundaries left and right.” From above, Mrs. Dwyer click-clacks across the room. “Although, in your case, you might not want to make a habit of it. Someone might notice and think the wrong thing. There could be a video posted to social media, police showing up at your door. It could be a whole thing.”

  “I appreciate the concern, but you don’t have to worry about me. You’re the first and, I expect, the last.”

  “That’s right, you did say unconscious females weren’t your thing. I guess if they get there on their own two feet, you’re safe.”