Manhattan Mogul: A New York City Romance

by Tara Leigh

  A lie. He wanted to control me. And he wanted my money.

  With a sigh, I return the picture frame back to the box and close the lid, sliding it back to its hiding place. Some things are better left in the dark.

  Chapter 6

  Nash

  Nixie Hyde has embedded herself inside my brain and I can’t stop thinking about her. I’ve never felt this way before. Not about anyone, not about anything.

  I’ve pursued companies, and important contacts at the Fed and the SEC, even white collar criminal lawyers, because . . . well, I’m not above taking my business to the edge and one day someone might accuse me of going over it.

  But, as for women, they usually come to me.

  Not Nixie, though. With her, I’m like a goddamn dog in heat.

  The analogy gave me an idea, one I’ve been working on for the past few hours. And now that I’ve gotten confirmation that the manager of the Brooklyn-based animal shelter is parked outside Nixie’s apartment building, I can move on to the fun part.

  Unfortunately, since the camera of Nixie’s phone is broken, I can’t FaceTime her. And my calls are sent directly to voicemail.

  I pull up our text feed.

  Nash: Wake up.

  I count to ten, then twenty. Nixie made it clear she isn’t an early riser, and it’s not even nine am in New York. A nervous feeling sweeps over me. What if she isn’t home?

  Nash: Wake up.

  Sure, I could have the woman from the shelter buzz the intercom to Nixie’s apartment, but what would be the fun in that? Plus, I hope to hell Nixie isn’t naive enough to let in an unexpected stranger.

  Frustration morphs into jealousy. What if she’s with someone? I clench my jaw, thumbs stiff as I jab at my screen.

  Nash: Nixie, get up. Now. I mean it.

  Finally, I see those three dots and exhaled. But her response isn’t a word. It’s an emoji. A snoring emoji.

  Nash: You have to go downstairs.

  Nixie: Later

  Nash: No. You need to go now.

  Nixie: Go away

  Nash: Nixie, I give you my word.

  Nixie: Ur word? Isn’t that kind of old fashioned?

  Nash: This coming from the woman who called me a cad?

  Nixie: Touché

  Nash: Does that mean you’re on your way downstairs?

  Nixie: It’s raining

  Nash: Are you going to melt?

  Nixie: I might

  Nash: It’s very very very important that you go downstairs. Right now.

  Nixie: I know this because u give ur “word”?

  Nash: Yes.

  Nixie: How do I know ur word means anything?

  Jesus fucking Christ, glaciers move at a faster pace.

  Nash: Because I’m telling you it does. It means everything. Go. Downstairs. Now.

  When she doesn’t immediately respond, I mumble a curse.

  Nash: Please.

  Nixie: Please? Wow

  Nixie: Is this some version of Punk’d?

  Nash: What?

  Nixie: Never mind

  Nixie: I’m going

  Hallefuckinglujah.

  Nixie: But if this is a trick, I’m never talking 2 u again

  Nash: Deal.

  For the next ten minutes, I pace the floor of my hotel suite checking my phone every few seconds. What is it about Nixie that makes me want to do nice things for her? I’m Nash Knight. I don’t do nice.

  Except for Madison and Parker. Those two have me wrapped around their little fingers.

  Then again, glancing through our texts, I realize that I passed nice ten minutes ago. Please? Jesus, I’m downright begging.

  Pussy.

  Scratching at the back of my neck with my free hand, I look out over Hong Kong’s skyline. Like Manhattan, the island city is surrounded by water, and packed with tall, modern buildings. New York will always be my favorite skyline, but aesthetically, Hong Kong is known as the Pearl of Asia for good reason. Right now, however, I might as well be staring at a brick wall.

  Finally, the phone clutched in my hand comes to life, chirping with an incoming call. The second I swipe to answer, Nixie’s high-pitched squeal hits my eardrums. “Oh my God, Nash. I can’t believe you did this!”

  I catch sight of my reflection in the window, momentarily recoiling from the stranger with the smooth, unfurrowed brow, bright eyes, and a shit-eating grin plastered across his face. I’ve sure as hell never seen him before.

  I turn away. “Was there one with eyes sad enough for you?”

  “Yes! I wish I could have taken all of them, but yes. The cutest, sweetest three-year-old little dog. Her owner recently passed away and the kids didn’t want her.” Nixie’s voice dips, becoming low and husky. “I can’t believe no one would want this little girl. She’s gorgeous, Nash.”

  “Did she bring you food and a leash and—” For the size of the donation I made, the woman assured me she would bring Nixie whatever the dog needed and then some.

  “Yes! She brought me everything. A leash and collar and crate and food and dog bed and toys. It took me three trips just to get everything upstairs.”

  A knot of consternation settles in my chest. Damn it. I probably should have had Simmons handle everything; she would have known Nixie needed an extra pair of hands to get everything into her apartment. But I’d wanted to take care of it myself. “I’ll send Jay over. He can—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous! Leave Jay alone.” Nixie’s high-pitched giggle hits my veins like a narcotic. “Aww. I think she likes me. She’s giving me kisses.”

  Fuck drugs. Nixie’s a goddamn drug. “Save some for me,” I choke out.

  “You know something, Nash,” my name ends on a higher note, as if she’s asking a question. “I think I just might.”

  My cock jerks inside my pants and I bite down on a groan. “I gotta go, Nixie.”

  “Okay. And thank you,” she trills just before I end the call. I don’t want to, but I have to get off the phone. There’s only so much of Nixie I can take before coming in my pants like an acne-plagued teen discovering his dad’s porn stash for the first time. Swearing under my breath, I realize I need to sweat out some of my pent-up sexual energy unless I intend to walk around with a hard on for the rest of the day.

  Just as I change out of my suit and into workout clothes, the phone buzzes again. My initial aggravation turns to appreciation as a picture pops up on my screen. The dog is cute—black fur with patches of gold, pointed ears above a pair of soulful, dark eyes, and a wet black nose—but that isn’t what steals the saliva from my mouth. The dog is nestled between Nixie’s bare legs, her skin dusted with the barest smattering of freckles, tiny toes painted bright red.

  Nash: I thought your camera was broken.

  Nixie: It is

  Nash: ???

  Nixie: 4 sexting

  Nixie: But 4 pictures of me and my new pooch- it works just fine

  Nash: I didn’t realize your phone had a moral code.

  Her answer is another picture, this one a shot of Nixie’s face wearing an openmouthed grin, the dog’s tongue swiping her cheek. Even the damn dog knows she’s delicious.

  Nash: You let her have a lick . . .

  Nixie: Maybe when u come back, I’ll let u have 1 too

  This girl is fucking killing me.

  Nash: I fly in on Saturday. I have an obligation until around 8. Can I take you out after?

  Nixie: Can Kismet come?

  Nash: Kismet, huh? It suits her. And yes, I’ll pick you both up at your place.

  Nixie: :)

  Nixie

  For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted a dog. Always. Growing up, a puppy was at the top of every birthday wish list and the first line of every letter to Santa. “When you’re old enough to be responsible for a pet, then we’ll get one,” my parents always said.

  It was what I’d been thinking about that fateful September 11th as I blew out the candles of my special birthday pancakes, filled with M&M’s and toppe
d by a cloud of whipped cream. How many more candles until I get a puppy?

  It was only a few hours later that I learned my parents would never give me a puppy. Not for my birthday or for Christmas or just because.

  My parents would never give me anything at all, ever again. Not special birthday pancakes. Not a kiss. Or a hug. Or a bedtime story.

  Nothing, ever.

  Because my parents were gone. Taken from me.

  Stolen.

  Kismet nudges my leg with a wet nose, wrenching my mind back to the present. “Hey there, little girl,” I choke out, my voice cracking on the second syllable. Of all the gifts Nash could have given me, this one means so much more than he’ll ever understand.

  Although why Nash has given me anything at all is a mystery. He asked me out, I said no. And it’s not as if a man like Nash Knight is short on date-night prospects. The man is Wall Street’s version of Fabio, for God’s sake. Well, minus the hair. Nash’s hair is too short and close-cropped to be mistaken for Fabio. But his face definitely deserves its own billboard in Times Square, and his body practically screams, “Climb me!”

  Kismet looks up at me with her sweet brown eyes and I scoop her into my arms. My resolve to stay away from Nash is definitely weakening. What am I really risking, after all?

  A broken heart? Been there, done that. And I survived.

  As my new best friend—my only friend, right now—nuzzles my neck, I allow myself to admit that I’m looking forward to seeing Nash again. A lot. Not just because he’s given me something I’ve wanted my whole life, although that’s certainly part of it. And not just because the thought of kissing him again makes something deep inside of my chest ache with longing, although that’s part of it, too.

  What really appeals to me is Nash’s insistence that his word means something. That he’s reliable and trustworthy. Someone I can count on. Someone who won’t let me down.

  Nash Knight might be a womanizing billionaire with an ego that barely fits into his designer penthouse, but if honesty and integrity actually mean something to him, dinner might not be the only thing on the menu.

  I’m not about to fall back into his bed again so quickly. But another kiss . . . Another kiss would definitely be nice.

  I lower my chin, rubbing my cheek against Kismet’s soft fur. The smile on my face drops as I take a sniff. “Okay, Kismet. I think it’s time to wash away the stench of the shelter and get you smelling like the furry little vixen I know you are.”

  Her pink tongue lolls from the side of her delicate snout in what looks like a smile. A distinctly contented doggy smile. “Kismet really does suit you perfectly, doesn’t it?”

  Maybe some things in life are meant to be. Fated.

  And maybe not every life that begins as a tragedy has to end that way.

  Kismet doesn’t seem to mind her bath, and afterward she smells as nice as I imagine all those Upper East Side purse dogs do. I take her for a walk, and then play with her while I crawl around my apartment on my hands and knees, looking for electric wires and small choking hazards Kismet might consider edible.

  I’m already regretting agreeing to work later. Scooping ice cream isn’t exactly a tough job, but even though I’m paid in cash and off-the-books, I make a lot more with my watercolors. Once my Etsy shop took off, I quit. But, feeling guilty for leaving so soon after I was hired, I agreed to fill in on an “as needed” basis.

  It’s not even a whole shift, just four hours. But I hate the thought of leaving Kismet, even though the woman from the shelter said I shouldn’t worry. That it was good for her to get used to being alone in my apartment, and that she’d probably just sleep.

  I agreed to stop by Dr. Carmichael’s office, too, so he can check on my stitches. “At least Nash is taking both of us out on a date tonight. I’ll be back before you know it, and we’ll take a nice long walk before he picks us up.”

  Kismet puts her head on her paws, wagging her tail. At least if I’m talking to a dog, she seems to be listening. Going for broke, I add, “I have a feeling you’re going to like him. I hate to admit it, but Nash Knight is pretty darn irresistible.” Then I laugh. “I’m sure he’d tell you himself, except I don’t think he’s the kind of guy that talks to dogs.”

  Nash

  Jay is waiting for me at the airport. During the sixteen hour flight, I had plenty of time to think about Nixie. Plenty of time to fantasize about Nixie’s sun-streaked, copper-colored hair spread across my pillow, her blazing amber eyes setting my blood on fire, her soft, pouty lips meeting mine. Unexpectedly, my fantasies weren’t merely physical. I’m equally excited just to talk to her. Go head-to-head with her quick comebacks and snarky wit.

  And, when I was able to focus on anything else, my mind was pulled back to Mack Duncan. My trip to Hong Kong had confirmed the effectiveness—and potential profit—of a joint venture with NetworkTech. Duncan said he wasn’t in a rush to sell his company, that it was more important that he find the right buyer. According to my own sources, Duncan hasn’t met with anyone he considers suitable. Yet.

  Maybe I’ll propose to Greta and send Duncan the marriage certificate.

  NetworkTech will be mine—by any means necessary.

  I’m not supposed to see Nixie until later tonight, after I spend the afternoon with the twins. But as I slide into the back of the Navigator, I can’t resist pulling up her name on my phone.

  Nash: Hey.

  By the time she responds, Jay is over the bridge already.

  Nixie: Hey

  Nixie: R u back?

  Nash: Yeah. In the car now. What are you doing?

  I fight the urge to add—What took you so long to answer me?—by the thinnest of margins. I don’t want to give her a reason to cancel our date and acting like a jealous, possessive alphahole is as good a reason as any. The fact that that’s exactly how she makes me feel is best kept under wraps for now.

  Nixie: Talking about u, actually

  I frown.

  Nash: Me? To whom?

  Nixie: Dr. Carmichael. I’m at his office

  Nixie: He says hi, btw

  Nash: Is he satisfied with how you’re healing?

  Nixie: I told him u returned his greeting, in case u were wondering

  Nixie: Yes- clean bill of health

  Nash: Good. What are you doing now?

  Nixie: Nothing really, I have work in an hour so . . .

  Nash: Time for a coffee? I know a place nearby that puts Starbucks to shame.

  Nixie: U had me at coffee

  I text her the address, tell Jay about the change in plans, and make a quick call. By the time I arrive, Nixie is seated at a corner table, looking even more beautiful than I remember, warming her hands around a steaming cappuccino. I wave at Lucia, Reggie’s wife, and join Nixie, brushing a lingering kiss on her cheek before sitting down.

  Lucia is already walking toward me with an espresso in her hands. She sets it down on the gleaming wood surface and pinches my cheeks. “Oooh, I can’t wait to tell Reggie you’ve finally brought a nice girl here.”

  My face burns from embarrassment and the tightness of Lucia’s grip. Not even my own mother coos over me like Lucia does. Then again, I don’t think my own mother likes the man I’ve become very much. Not that I can blame her.

  She and my father live in Florida now, and for selfish reasons, it’s easier having them a thousand miles away. Since my brothers’ deaths, heartbreak is permanently etched into their faces. They are walking warning signs. Love hurts.

  Lucia’s bakery is hardly the kind of place I bring my dates. There’s no cocktail menu or wine list, no Michelin-star chef, sultry playlist, or seductive lighting. The small storefront is homey and warm, a place I bring the the twins to whenever I get them to myself. And Lucia eyes are too watchful to bring anyone else. Yet, with Nixie, it was the first place that sprang to mind.

  “This one, he works too much, fights too much.” Lucia regards Nixie with a conspiratorial grin. “I ask Reggie every night, when is our Na
sh going to settle down? Find a nice girl, a good girl.”

  I’m beginning to question my decision to come here at all when Lucia drops a kiss on the top of my head and, with another pinch of my cheeks, she bustles back behind the counter.

  “Well, I guess that answers my question.”

  I pick up my espresso. “What question?””

  “Why I got such special attention. There was a line all the way to the door when I got here but she came right around the counter and brought me straight to this table.”

  “Lucia and I go back a long way.”

  “I can tell,” she says with a light laugh, red hair falling softly around her face. “Who is Reggie and why do they call you ‘our Nash’?”

  “Reggie’s her husband. He gave me a lifeline when I was a kid, so I helped out when Lucia mentioned she was thinking about opening her own bakery.”

  I found the space and gave her the start-up money she needed to make it a success. She calls it a loan, but I don’t want to be paid back. After all, if not for Lucia and Reggie, I’d probably be living in a state penitentiary rather than a penthouse.

  “A lifeline.” Nixie takes a sip of her frothy coffee. “That sounds very dramatic.”

  I reach out to brush a stray bit of foam from her upper lip with the pad of my thumb, wishing I could lick it off instead. “It’s a long story.”

  To explain it all, I’d have to go back to 9/11. And I don’t want to talk about the tragedy of that day right now. It’s something I live with, a stain on my soul that will never be erased. But for just a little while, I’d like to stay in the here and now. With Nixie.

  “Maybe you’ll tell me tonight.”

  “And maybe you’ll tell me something, too.”

  “Like what?”

  My lips twist. “And ruin the element of surprise?” Not to mention, give Nixie time to come up with some half-truth or diversion. No way.

  “I hate surprises,” Nixie says flatly, not a trace of humor in her voice.

  “I surprised you this morning, didn’t I? You didn’t seem to mind then.”

  “Fair enough. Kismet was the best surprise ever. I guess you’ve earned a little faith.”