Manhattan Mogul: A New York City Romance

by Tara Leigh

She swivels, golden eyes burning bright. “Yes?”

  “Not sure if this is a good idea.” I’m a man, not a statue—although my cock is so damn hard it’s in danger of cracking off.

  “You want an answer?”

  “Yes.”

  She brings her hands to the button at the top of her jeans, the zipper a sharp whine splitting my fevered thoughts. Denim slides down her toned thighs, revealing a flash of the same lace as her bra, a tiny triangle in the place I want to press my mouth and breathe deep. Then inches and inches of glowing skin. She leaves her jeans in a puddle on the floor and crosses my path to slip beneath the sheets, holding one edge up. “You coming?”

  A devil in an angel’s body.

  I kick off my shoes, but nothing else. Every muscle in my body is rigid, buzzing with energy desperate to be released. “Yeah,” I say, slipping into bed. Her head is on the pillow, face turned toward mine. “No. I can’t look at you without kissing you. And Nixie, if I start kissing you, I’m not going to be able to stop.”

  She blinks, her tongue peeking out to swipe across a soft pout. “I don’t think I want you to stop,” she whispers, sounding both confused and surprised by the admission.

  “When I leave, when I get out of this bed in the morning, what are you going to want then?”

  She thinks for a minute. “I’d want you to miss me. And to come back.”

  The last woman I made any sort of commitment to is Eva, and look how well that turned out.

  I want Nixie, but what kind of track record do I have? Can I promise not to hurt her? Can I promise not to lose interest and leave?

  I shake my head slowly, forcing a harsh truth from my mouth. “Like I said, you deserve so much better than what I have to offer.” My hand tightens into a fist beneath the pillow as her lower lip quivers. “Turn around, Nixie. I mean it.”

  She relents, her hair sliding against my neck, smelling of caramel. Barely an inch separates our bodies, both of us running so hot it’s a wonder the bed doesn’t spontaneously combust. Unable to stop myself, I lift my free hand and rest it on Nixie’s hip, giving the delicate bone a gentle squeeze. “I’m here, though. Tell me.”

  She blows out a sigh, her ribcage rising and falling beneath my forearm. “Under the terms of my parents’ will, I gain my inheritance by fulfilling one of two possible conditions.”

  “The first condition being your age.”

  “Yes.”

  I wait for Nixie to continue, giving her a slight nudge when she remains silent. “And the second?”

  “Marriage.”

  I think I knew what her answer would be before voicing my question, but the single word still hits hard.

  My heart skips a beat, picturing Nixie in a white dress with Derrick standing beside her, leering as he envisions getting his hands on her money. There are few people in this world I despise more than those who take advantage of innocents. And that’s what Nixie is. Or at least what she was, until that asshole stained her with his ugliness. “So even though he’s the reason you ran away, Derrick thought that if he found you, he could convince you to marry him?”

  Her shoulders lift in a shrug. “Derrick sees what he wants to see. He was there for me when my world shattered. He feels like I owe him.”

  I close my eyes, forcing myself to stay still when all I want to do is hunt the bastard down and rip his throat out. I hear her sniffle once, then twice. “Hey, no. He’s not worth your tears, Nixie. You don’t owe him a damn thing.”

  “You don’t know—”

  Muttering a curse, I wrap my arm around Nixie and pull her against me, dropping the lightest of kisses on her neck. She starts to roll over, and I tighten my hold. “Sleep, Nixie. I’m not going to be another disappointment in your life. I won’t hurt you. Ever.”

  Once Nixie’s breaths became deep and even, I move away from her, each inch more painful than the last. Closing the door to the bedroom behind me, I call Tripp Montgomery, who owns a cyber-security company. Normally, I would have called his partner, Lance Welles. But Lance is still single, and is probably out with his latest flavor-of-the-month—if she even lasts that long.

  Like Lance, Tripp is one of the best hackers in the world, although their business is squeaky-clean. Understandably, since Tripp’s father was convicted for pulling a Madoff-level scam, and on Wall Street, the Montgomery name is mud.

  Luckily for me, Tripp occasionally bends the rules for his friends. “A late night call from Knight. This can’t be good.”

  “Sleep is for pussies.”

  Tripp chuckles. “Says you. I’d kill for some shut-eye right about now.” Tripp’s life should be made into a movie. There’s so much drama it’s no surprise at all that he’s not sleeping. “What’s going on?”

  “You sure have have time? I can get one of my in-house guys on it—”

  “Shut the fuck up. What do you need?”

  I quickly explain the few facts I have (father, Paul; son, Derrick; Long Island residence, approximate ages), and the information I need (their last name).

  “Attwood,” Tripp says, a minute later. “Next time, can you at least give me a challenge?”

  “Are you trying to curse me?” He chuckles as I hang up. Pulling my laptop from my bag, I get started on my own research.

  I’m deep down the rabbit hole of corporate filings, real estate transactions, and press clippings when I see it. So innocuous, at first. Just a link to a newspaper article that appears to be more of a human-interest story than anything else.

  The article about “The Orphan of 9/11” is interesting, all right. For a moment the words on my screen blur, the room itself swaying.

  Nixie Hyde is Noelle Kennedy. She is The Orphan of 9/11. Her parents didn’t just die—they died in the Towers. Just like my older brother.

  Nixie’s link to the terrorist attack hits me like a sledgehammer, and I sit back in my chair, the air knocked from my lungs.

  Our lives have both been shattered by the same tragedy.

  September 11th.

  Why didn’t she tell me?

  But I know. Or, at least, I think I know. Every New Yorker feels like they have some ownership of 9/11. But unless you’ve lost someone—and not just someone, but someone you loved, someone whose life was completely intertwined with your own—you can’t truly relate.

  The ensuing conversation is always awkward and uncomfortable.

  You lost your brother? Oh, how awful. My best friend lost her sister. Or, My cousin was running late for work that day, otherwise . . . Or, We lived a few blocks away and weren’t allowed in our apartment for weeks afterward.

  I avoid it whenever possible, so I can’t fault Nixie for doing the same.

  But now, the close connection between us finally makes sense.

  I continue clicking on article after article. There are so many. Most are centered on Nixie—Noelle—but one, written on the fifth anniversary, focused on her life since the attack. The accompanying picture shows a gangly, freckle-faced girl seated between a younger Derrick and a man who could have doubled for the guy who had barreled out of her apartment building.

  Rage swells within my chest, and I turn my focus back to the source. I dig even deeper into the Attwoods, compiling every sliver of information concerning their business interests. Looking for ways to destroy Derrick through his father and their company.

  Oh, I fully intend to beat Derrick to a bloody pulp. But if he’s truly an addict, he’ll find a way to gamble from his hospital bed. And when he gets out, Nixie will be in exactly the same position she’s in now.

  If I really want to get rid of Derrick—permanently—there’s someone I can call. Damon King rules Manhattan’s underworld with an iron fist, but he’s not the kind of guy you want to owe a favor. Calling him is a last resort.

  But if there’s one thing life on Wall Street has taught me, it’s that money is at the root of everything. Cutting off an adversary’s cash flow is like crushing his kneecaps. The best way to destroy Derrick is to lay waste to
his bankroll. Which means destroying the root of it. Paul Attwood’s company.

  It’s nearly dawn when I find myself staring at a photo of the Paul and Derrick Attwood standing side by side on their corporate website. By the time I’m through with Derrick Attwood, he’s going to wish he was dead. And if his father is collateral damage, so be it.

  Nixie

  I wake up alone. I’m not surprised to discover Nash is gone, although I am disappointed. I felt so close to him last night, while we were sitting on the couch together. The animosity between us had evaporated completely, making room for playful banter and lighthearted teasing. Even a few truthful confessions. More than a few, actually.

  The intimacy of those hours changed things, shifting my perspective and allowing me to see Nash in a different light. When he kissed me, I wanted to go even further. And when he stopped, I tried to tempt him.

  But now, with the other side of the bed empty, I’m glad he pulled the brakes. I’m not sure what to make of our new dynamic. Is it temporary or permanent? All in my head or does Nash feel it, too?

  It’s not just my thoughts that are restless. Unable to linger in bed, I slip from the sheets to check on Kismet and poke around in the kitchen. Hopefully one of the fancy appliances I noticed yesterday can brew a decent cup of coffee.

  Kismet lifts her head up when I come out of the bedroom, but promptly puts it back down and closes her eyes. Too early for her, too.

  I turn toward the kitchen in search of my morning dose of caffeine, but what I find is even better. Nash, flat on his back on the couch, an open laptop resting on his chest. He looks so peaceful, just lying there. No frown on his face, and those piercing aquamarine eyes that beamed with compassion and warmth last night are now shuttered. Tiptoeing over, I take advantage of the moment to study him further.

  Awake, Nash Knight is intense and intimidating. But asleep, his hard edges are slightly softer, that frantic energy about him turned down to a low hum rather than a crackling buzz. Wanting to keep this Nash around a little longer, I lean over the back of the couch, gently picking up his Mac. As I lift it from his chest, my thumb accidentally slides over the keypad, bringing the screen to life.

  What I see makes me want to drop the thing right on his head.

  “Good morning.” Nash’s sleepy drawl climbs up my spine and saves him from a concussion.

  “What’s this?” I demand, turning the screen to face him.

  Confronted with the blown up image of me with the Attwoods, Nash’s sleepy smile dies. “Looks to me like it’s you.”

  Wiseass. “I can see that. Why is it on your computer? Why are you prying into my life?”

  I purposely didn’t share the details of my parents death with Nash, or Pappi and Derrick’s last name. But somehow he found out anyway, uncovering what I wasn’t ready to reveal. My indignation serves as insulation, and I wrap it around me now, using it to restore the distance that last night eroded.

  He tugs the laptop from my grasp and closes the screen with a snap. “I’m not prying, Nixie. It’s public information.”

  “I answered your questions last night.” I cross my arms over my chest. “Did you think I was lying? You needed to fact-check me?”

  Nash swings his legs over the edge of the couch and sits up, scrubbing a hand over his stubbled jaw. Unwelcome heat pulses between my thighs. Is there ever a time of day that this man isn’t sex on a stick? “That’s not what I was doing. Not at all.”

  “Then what were you doing? Because from where I’m standing, it feels pretty intrusive.”

  Nash pats the cushion. “Sit with me.” I stare at him, dubious. He crooks a smile and gives another pat. “Come on. I won’t even negotiate the questions in advance.”

  When I step out from behind the couch, Nash’s eyes immediately drop to my bare legs. Remembering that I haven’t bothered to get dressed this morning, my cheeks color. He brings his hands up into a T. “Time out. Can you please go put a pair of pants on?”

  The naked want on his face is a gift, leveling—just slightly—what feels like a very unsteady playing field. “Be right back.” A minute later, I’m sliding onto the couch in the worn jeans I had on yesterday, drawing my knees up and wrapping my arms around them. “Okay, go.”

  “First, should I call you Noelle now?”

  “No. Nixie is a nickname.” And I like hearing it on his lips.

  “Done,” he says with a nod. “Look, I realize that you obviously decided not to tell me that your parents died in 9/11, or your real name, or any of it. And I’m not going to ask. Until you want to talk about it, I’ll respect your privacy. When you do, if you do, I’m here. I’ll listen.

  “But I won’t apologize for digging into the Attwoods. Derrick took advantage of you, and now he’s trying to bully you and steal from you. He thinks you’re all alone, Nixie. That there’s no one looking out for you. But he’s wrong. You have me. And he’s going to find out that I fight back. Hard.”

  Imagining Nash facing down Derrick, with that smug, I-will-break-you attitude of his . . . is definitely hot.

  And the little girl inside me who once believed in fairy tales and happily ever afters wants to swoon.

  But I’m not that girl anymore, and haven’t been in a very long time. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, really. But it’s not your battle to fight, Nash.”

  “Any man who leaves bruises on a woman deserves bruises in return. And Derrick is vulnerable in other ways, too. He has no assets of his own, and from what I can tell, his only source of income stems from his father and their company. I have the means to destroy it, and, in the process, destroy him.”

  I look at Nash as if he’s lost his mind. “You know, for a guy who says he’s no hero, you keep trying to act like one. Whatever Derrick’s issues are now, his father took me in when I was a little girl with nothing and no one. Leave them alone. Both of them, and the company, too.”

  “But Nixie—”

  “No buts. I’m serious. My father helped build that company, and I won’t let you destroy it.”

  “Derrick is going to come after you again.”

  I lift my chin. “Well, if he does, I’ll handle it.”

  “How? You going to buy a steel turtleneck?”

  “Very funny, Nash.”

  “I mean it—I don’t think you’re taking his threat seriously enough.”

  Nash doesn’t know Derrick like I do. Yesterday was a fluke, I’m sure of it. And either way, Derrick is my problem, and I’m going to fix it myself. “I’m not going into hiding, again, just because Derrick thinks I’m the answer to his money problems.”

  I watch Nash roll his head from one side of his neck to the other, my fingers aching from the effort of not coming up behind him and massaging those muscles myself. Or strangling him. It’s hard to decipher my emotions when it comes to Nash. “Don’t think of it as hiding, then. Consider it a staycation.”

  “A staycation?”

  “Yeah. Movies, room service. There’s a pool and a gym. Why don’t you just lay low for a few days?”

  “Because I have classes, I have clients. And hiding in a fancy hotel is still hiding, no matter what you call it.”

  “Okay, fine.” He hooks an elbow over the frame of the couch. “But you need to learn some basic self-defense moves.”

  I blink. “From you?” I shake my head. Do men ever outgrow the GI Joe phase of their childhood?

  “Why not? You’ve seen first-hand what I’m capable of.”

  I have, in the alley. And I never want to see that cold, brutal glaze in his eyes again. “I don’t—”

  His eyes slide to my neck. “This is not a negotiation.” He stands up and shoves the couch, with me on it, and the cocktail table against the wall, then moves into the center of the room and looks at me expectantly.

  I meet Nash’s stare, but after a minute of unblinking silence the futility of my effort is obvious. This isn’t a fight I’ll win, and it isn’t exactly a bad idea either. “Fine.” I huff an a
ggravated sigh that’s mostly for show. “Let me put a bra on.”

  He quirks one of his signature panty-dropping smiles that I feel to my core. “Not on my account, I hope.”

  A minute later, I’m back in the living room, although the thin lace barrier between my skin and shirt is practically pointless. “Are you going to teach me to kick your ass?”

  “Few people on the planet are that good,” he says, not a trace of humor in his tone.

  “I like your modesty.”

  “Never heard of it. Anyway,” he claps his hands together, “before we get started, is there anything I should know about your body? Previous injuries, anyplace you want to keep off-limits?”

  “Um,” I stutter. A few hours ago I wanted Nash’s hands everywhere. “I broke my arm when I was a kid, falling off the jungle gym at school, but it’s fine.”

  “Which one?”

  “Left.”

  “Noted. Now come here,” he says, beckoning me forward with a crooked finger.

  I walk toward him, nerves swimming in my stomach, my skin burning for his touch. In the past twenty-four hours, I’ve bounced between wanting to pull Nash close and push him away too many times. I don’t know what to think anymore, or what to expect.

  But I don’t have time to dwell on it. For the next forty-five minutes, Nash takes me through a dozen different scenarios. At first, I’m tentative and completely unsure of myself. Eventually, my confidence grows and we’re both breathing hard. When I manage to slide out of Nash’s hold and land a blow to his kidney—not that he even winces, it must take someone a lot stronger than me to get past the thick layer of muscle protecting his vital organs—he beams. “Nice!”

  I return his wide grin. “Thanks, I had a pretty good teacher.” The air around us pulses with energy and I sweep my tongue over suddenly dry lips, watching Nash follow the movement with naked longing in his eyes.

  But then he swallows and steps back. “Mind if I get ready here before leaving?”

  Disappointment lances through me as I blink. It’s a weekday. Of course Nash isn’t going to stay here and play hooky with me. “It’s your place. Have at it.”