by Tara Leigh
All except my closest friends, unfortunately. Bryce, because he joined the NHL and now lives a thousand miles away. Nash, who runs the hottest venture capital firm in the country but loathes event like these. And Tripp, the son of the most reviled financier since Bernie Madoff. He’s since reinvented himself as the head of a successful cyber-security firm but still hasn’t been welcomed back into the fold of the moneyed Manhattan set. Lance is on the West Coast. And Holt, heir to a hotel empire, could be anywhere in the world.
I’ve considered calling Tripp about my aggravating Twitter problem but so far I’ve resisted the urge. Something, pride maybe, has prevented me from admitting how much it’s getting to me. That, and it feels like asking someone else to fight a battle on my own home turf. Which is something I’ve never done. Ever.
My eyes skip over a blonde in a red dress, then quickly return. Not because I recognize her—I don’t. It’s because she has a face, and a body, that demands my attention.
Tonight is looking up.
I’m heading in her direction when she tips her head back to laugh at something the man beside her says. Eyes the bright shade of freshly cut, well-tended grass meet mine as her open-mouthed grin softens to a generous smile. For a moment, I stop in my tracks, the blare of an alarm sounding inside my head.
If she was an investment, she’d be labeled high risk, high reward, with a warning—Don’t buy if you can’t afford to lose.
I’m on the brink of opening my fund up to new investors. I don’t have any official commitments yet, but by the end of the year I expect my assets under management to clock in at $500 million. Minimum.
It won’t be easy. I have a uphill climb and an enormous workload ahead that both demands and deserves my complete focus. This is the most important time in my career and I can’t afford to fuck it up by getting involved with some girl who looks like the very definition of trouble with capital T. Something I need as much as a hole in my head.
I’m maybe ten feet away, unable to tear my eyes from her face. She’s young. Maybe too young . . .
And then she smiles again. Not just any smile. This one isn’t polite, or friendly, or casual in any way. No, her smile is so bright it heats the drink in my hands, so blinding my vision tunnels until all I see is her, so artful—maybe even a little shrewd—that I decide her age isn’t a deterrent. This girl is no naive wallflower. And damned if those curved lips are an invitation I’m inclined to resist.
My feet are still planted in place, just barely, when she lifts the wine glass in her hand, her mouth closing over the rim, our stare unbroken as she takes a sip. Her open appraisal is a lure, and . . . Fuck it.
I take the bait.
Reina
I stop listening to my date well before he stops speaking. My focus has been hijacked by the striking stranger walking toward me, intention blazing from his steely blue eyes. He is one of the rare men who fills out his clothes so well I’d bet the contents of my bank account—admittedly, not much—he would look even better naked. Quite a statement, since his tuxedo probably set him back as much as an entire table at this expensive benefit. Not that I paid for my ticket.
And then he comes to a standstill.
I tell myself to look away, to turn back to my date. Chris is . . . nice. Medium height, decent manners, attractive in a familiar yet forgettable way. He’s a partner in an accounting firm. Very successful. I know this last bit of information not merely because he could afford our tickets, but because he told me so. Several times.
Chris is not, however, in the same league as the man standing ten feet away from me. Maybe not even the same species. That man’s dark hair is the slightest bit too long, and the knot of his tie just crooked enough to make me think (hope?) there isn’t a wife or girlfriend in the picture who would have certainly straightened it. He is a few years older than me, maybe more than a few, and there’s something about him—a distinct this-is-my-world-and-you’re-just-living-in-it assuredness, perhaps—that I find disconcertingly appealing. And even a little familiar.
Not that we’ve met—he’s not someone I’d ever forget. But familiar in a way that makes me think I’ve seen him somewhere before, or know him from somewhere. Which is entirely possible. I’d be willing to bet that at least half this crowd has made the society pages at one point or another. And a face like his . . . photographers must love him.
Or maybe, it’s just wishful thinking. Because I want to know him.
Resistance is futile. I can’t help myself.
I offer my most enticing smile, the one I’ve been polishing for years. Sincere and encouraging, it brims with counterfeit confidence. My smile has earned me forgiveness when I deserved none, a seat in first class even though I’d only paid for coach.
And everything about this man screams First Class. He belongs in this room, filled with the wealthiest, most successful people in Manhattan. I even spotted my future boss a few minutes ago. Well, not my direct boss. More like, my boss’s boss’s boss’s . . . you get the idea. The CEO of the hedge fund where I’ll be working next week.
Except, this time, with this man, my smile doesn’t work. He’s still standing several paces away, couples in black tie and ball gowns filling the space between us. Unsure what to do next, and with my gaze still anchored by his, I take a sip of my drink, the acidic notes of the cheap wine clawing at my taste buds. What did you expect, Reina? This guy can see through your act. He’s so far out of your league, you wouldn’t even know what to do with him.
But before I can look away, he starts to move . . . in my direction. Within a minute we are face to face. Almost. Although I am wearing my highest heels, I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. “There you are,” he says, his voice silky smooth as he cups my elbow with his free hand, the simple contact sending an electric charge through my veins. “I think we have time before the auction begins to discuss that deal you asked me about, don’t you?”
For God’s sake, swallow. The wine burns as it darts down my throat, but at least I don’t choke on it. A small mercy. “Ah, sure. Yes. The deal, absolutely.”
My date glares at me, undoubtedly picking up on the sexual tension crackling between me and this interloper. Chris has spent the past half hour showing me off to his friends, strutting beside me in his tux like a proud penguin. Getting ditched for another man isn’t part of his plan. “You can’t leave now. We’re just about to head to our table. I bought tickets.”
“Go on ahead. I’ll find you in a bit,” I lie. Chris is about as exciting as a glass of water and just as transparent. Regardless of what happens between me and Bachelor Number Two, I’d rather walk away now than have to justify my lack of interest later.
The living embodiment of ‘tall, dark, and handsome’ nonchalantly tucks a business card into Chris’s breast pocket then gives it a little pat. The move is cocky, condescending, and makes something deep inside my body turn liquid. “Call my office Monday, I’ll see that you’re made whole.”
I should feel guilty as my date sputters with resentment, but I’m too distracted by the chills racing up my spine from the warm palm at my bare back.
This new, and much sexier, penguin leads me to the end of the bar, easing me through the crowd of people and positioning himself so that I’m hidden from view.
His human barricade skills are seriously on point. “Football or hockey?” I ask, trying to appear unruffled.
A wicked gleam in his eyes hints at the devilish boy he must’ve once been. “Hockey. Why?”
“You obviously know how to block an opponent.”
“Is that what you’d call the guy you just ditched?”
“What would you call him?”
“I could think of a few things. But competition? Not on the list.”
Ouch. I feel a pang of sympathy for Chris. And another pang, altogether different, somewhere else.
“Can I get you a real drink?”
“What are you having?” I nod at his empty glass.
“Scotch.�
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I wrinkle my nose. “Vodka with club soda and a twist of lime, please.” The bartender appears at his side so quickly it can’t be an accident, given the crowd. He repeats my order, replacing my generic request for vodka with Belvedere.
“What’s your name?” he asks, as we wait for our drinks.
“Reina St. James.”
“Nice to meet you, Reina St. James.” He speaks with a cultured East Coast accent, but there’s a warmth to his tone that’s both unexpected and refreshing. “My friends call me TJ.”
“Well that was fast. Do you always acquire new friends so easily?”
“What can I say? When you know, you know.”
The insides of my cheeks tingle as I laugh. “Pleasure to meet you, TJ,” I say, just as our drinks appear.
“The pleasure’s all mine.” He taps the rim of his glass against mine. “To new friends.”
It’s loud by the bar, and TJ glances over his shoulder through the open set of doors leading to the less crowded ballroom. “Should we head in?”
I nod, and his hand once again finds its way to my lower back as we make our way inside the ballroom. Most of the tables have discreet numbers tucked within the elegant arrangements of lilies and orchids at their center. But TJ leads me toward the back of the room, pulling out a chair at a table with a gorgeous centerpiece but no number assigned to it. At my puzzled glance, he says, “If we sit where I’m supposed to sit, I’ll wind up talking shop all night,” he says.
“You sure you’re not a party crasher?” His fingertips brush my upper arms as I sit down, making the skin at the back of my neck prickle with awareness.
“There are people who actually want to be at these things?”
“I could think of a few.” My days playing dress-up ended when my mother left. To have the chance to do it now, for real, is proof that in New York, anything is possible. “So . . . this deal you invented to get me away from my date. Is that your standard pick up line?”
“That depends. Was it a good one?”
My lips twitch as I offer a purposely unimpressed shrug. “Not about to give you any points for originality.”
“How about effectiveness? It worked, didn’t it?”
“For now. Chris might come looking for me.” In theory, anyway. I’m certain there aren’t many guys who can compete with TJ, and Chris isn’t one of them. He’s hiding somewhere on the other side of the ballroom with his tail tucked between his legs.
“If he does, should I let you go?”
The hem of my dress rises as I cross my legs, and I notice the slightest catch in TJ’s breath. Good, I shouldn’t be the only one feeling off-balance here.
“Are you implying I can’t leave for my own reasons?”
He covers with an imperious arch of his eyebrow. “What reasons?”
“I might decide you’re boring. Or rude. Or—” I pause, brainstorming other applicable negative traits. But it’s hard. I’ve spent five minutes with the man and he’s too damn charming for me to concentrate.
“Or . . .” he prods, putting his elbow on the table and resting his chin on the heel of his hand, a twin set of thick, inky eyelashes fanning the crest of his cheekbones.
“I might find you insufferable for a million reasons,” I finally insist. Lame, so lame.
“A million, really?” His expression turns comically wounded. “I’m never rude. I’m rarely boring. And, just for you, I promise to be exceptionally sufferable. How’s that for a deal?”
“Fine . . . I guess. If you’re willing to accept a one-sided deal, which makes you a pretty terrible deal maker.”
TJ laughs, a husky, sensuous sound he chases with a healthy swallow of scotch. “Let’s make it two-sided, then. What’s your offer?”
“My offer?” I shake my head, my hair sliding back and forth over the artery in my neck that’s practically vibrating from my racing pulse. “No dice. I don’t make deals with men I don’t know, especially for things I don’t know I want.”
Leaning back in his chair, TJ studies me with a cool aloofness at odds with his earlier flirtatious banter. “You’re walking away?”
Not a chance. But I’m not about to admit that. I’ve spent the past four years working toward an Ivy League degree, and am six-figures in the red to prove it. This is sort of a last hurrah weekend for me. Come Monday I will finally have a view from the inside of a skyscraper, and all of my focus will be on climbing the corporate ladder. Tonight, though, I’m entirely satisfied with the view in front of me. The only thing I’m thinking about climbing . . . is TJ.
Pursing my lips, I look intently at something just over his shoulder for a few seconds. “Not quite yet,” I muse, returning my gaze to his. “But I’ll let you know.”
Again with the eyebrow. Like a disdainful tic. “You do that, Reina.” There is the faintest echo from the thud of a challenge being thrown down.
I’m competitive by nature, though I’m not sure TJ is someone I should go toe-to-toe with. But I am definitely intrigued by him. I straighten in my chair, eager to learn more. “So, what do you do, TJ?”
But he has other ideas.
“Let’s not do that,” TJ answers, almost dismissively. “The whole—what do you do, where do you work, what school did you go to, where do you live . . . It’s boring.”
“Is it now?” I’m caught off guard. I’ve never met a man who isn’t all too willing to talk about himself. Ad nauseam, usually.
“Yes. And I’ve promised not to bore you.”
Hmmm. Handsome, charming, clearly rich. And . . . interesting. “How about you ask me something then. Unless you have a deck of cards in your pocket?”
“Sadly, no. Although you’re welcome to verify for yourself.”
TJ’s cheeky grin makes me respond in kind. “If I decide to pick your pocket, you’ll never know.”
His gaze drops to my hands, reaching out for them. I acquiesce, a disquieting thrum of arousal sparking to life as I settle my small palms over his much larger ones. “These hands could slip into so many places, virtually unnoticed,” he murmurs. My stomach flips once, then flips again when his eyes return to mine, the too-knowing glint in them making me almost queasy. “I bet you’d make the perfect little thief.”
I wrench my hands away with a thin, high-pitched laugh. “Fully reformed, I promise.”
Which is the truth. I went through a bit of a shoplifting phase a few years after my mother left. And I did get good at it . . . but not good enough. A classmate caught me red-handed and blackmailed me into doing her assignments as well as my own for the rest of the year. It was miserable, and even though she didn’t return to school after our summer break, I haven’t stolen so much as a dime since.
He gives me another long, searching look as if my past is written across my face. Impossible, of course. I’ve been hiding behind a mask for so long, he’d need a crowbar to remove it. “That’s too bad. I have kind of a thing for beautiful burglars.”
“Oh, have you known so many?”
“Touché,” TJ says. “Unfortunately, my experience is limited to heist movies.”
I roll my eyes. “So, what you really mean is that you have a thing for Catherine Zeta-Jones in Entrapment.”
He laughs again. “Well, let’s be real—who doesn’t have a thing for Catherine Zeta-Jones in Entrapment?”
“True. She single-handedly made cat-burglar into an acceptably aspirational career choice. Though, as far as heist movies go, I’m more of an Inside Man fan myself.”
“That was a good one. Great match up between Clive Owens and Denzel Washington.”
“Don’t forget about Jodie Foster.”
“Right. How long ago was that—back in 2007, 2006?”
“Yeah, around then. I think the whole heist movie genre has been overrun by the Fast and Furious and Ocean’s Eleven franchises.”
“Agreed. The Fast and Furious are a little too fast and furious for me. I mean, how many angry chase scenes can you fit into a movie and still actually
care about the reason they’re running in the first place? And while the first Ocean’s was great, the rest have gone downhill. ”
“I’m obliged to stand up for Ocean’s Eight, but other than that . . .” My voice trails off as I swirl the straw in my drink, ice cubes clinking. “Your favorite heist movie, was it released before or after Inside Man?”
“Before,” he answers immediately.
“Could be The Italian Job,” I muse. “But I don’t think so. Would you say it’s a classic, or more of a cult favorite?”
“Classic.”
I take a guess. “Thomas Crown Affair?”
“Maybe. Original or remake?”
“The remake, of course. Nothing against Dunaway and McQueen, but Russo and Brosnan took the script to a whole new level.” TJ resembles a young Brosnan, actually. Classic. Debonair with just a touch of rumpled sexiness. At least, on the surface. I don’t yet know what lies beneath.
But I want to.
For a moment, I think TJ is going to argue with me but then he lifts his glass. “Damn, I hate being a foregone conclusion.”
I immediately recognize the line and tap the rim of my glass against his. “Coming up with the right quote at exactly the right time is a vastly underrated skill. Good job.”
“What’s your most underrated skill, Reina?”
I discard my initial response—faking it with the best of ‘em—for something less telling. “Shucking corn.”
He gives a slow blink. “Shucking corn?”
“Yes, those silky little strings between the kernels and the husk. Getting rid of them was sort of my job as a kid. Growing up, I’d sit on the porch with fresh corn and a paper bag, pulling out every last one.”
“As far as underrated skills go, I have to give it to you. I never knew that one existed.”
“Well, now you do. Next time you eat corn on the cob you’ll appreciate the person who husked it for you.”