Penthouse Prince: A new York City Romance

by Tara Leigh

  My heart pounds as his breath ghosts over skin burning from desire, disappointment, and a hearty dose of embarrassment. “Thanks.” I shove my underwear into my purse, lace spilling from the top, and reach for the door knob.

  TJ is holding it closed.

  “Please don’t make this any more awkward than it is already.”

  “I’m waiting for an answer. Or don’t you think I deserve one?”

  “I changed my mind. Now, please, I’d like to leave.”

  A vein throbs in his temple, his stare searing. After a long, long moment, TJ opens the door and I dart into the corridor.

  He follows me.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Escorting you downstairs and putting you into a cab.” Reaching past me, he pushes the call button for the elevator.

  “That’s ridiculous. I’m perfectly capable of hailing my own.”

  TJ’s expression is stoic and unwavering. “I never said you weren’t.”

  The ride down is filled with even more tension than our ride up—for exactly the opposite reason. I cannot wait to get away from him, to put as much space between us as possible. An entire ballroom filled with men and I go home with IVy?

  The car and driver that brought us here is gone, though Tristan hails a cab quickly, his lips pursed in a frown as he slips the driver a bill.

  If I kiss him right now, I’ll taste myself on his lips.

  But kissing Tristan James Xavier Bettencourt IV, ever again, is out of the question. I can’t believe I didn’t recognize him, although I can trace back all the little inflection points that led to this disaster. The virus that corrupted my phone, prompting me to set my Internet browser to text-only. The cracks in my screen I was too broke to fix. The exams I studied for, the papers I wrote. The final grades and curriculum requirements that had occupied my brain to the exclusion of all else. The box of magazines and newspapers I’d been meaning to read that had been misplaced—or, more likely, accidentally thrown out—when I moved from the tiny apartment I shared with a roommate during college, into a minuscule one I have all to myself.

  Even so, I should have put two and two together. I should have known, immediately, that TJ is really Tristan. IVy.

  His father is one of Wall Street’s heaviest hitters, overseeing an empire that rivals even my biological father’s. The Bettencourts are in the news all the time. And TJ himself is a regular fixture in New York’s gossip and society columns, though I now realize that the photos accompanying his name have never done him justice.

  TJ doesn’t say anything else, just pats the door as he steps back onto the curb. I give my address, burrowing into the dark interior like a toddler hiding behind drapery panels. But it doesn’t matter—the heat of his stare lingers on my skin as the cab merges into traffic.

  Air. I need air. I fumble for the window switch and suck in huge lungfuls of Manhattan’s finest. Since birth, I’ve been an asshole magnet. Only this time, I am the asshole.

  TJ—Tristan, I correct myself again because we are definitely not friends—is a luxury I can’t afford. A magnum of Moët, while my budget only allows for a can of Natty Light.

  Horror twists my stomach into knots as I replay the entire evening in my mind. If there was a rewind button, I would’ve pressed it. I would’ve stayed with my boring date, and been back at home, alone, having already pawned him off with nothing more than a kiss and maybe some heavy petting.

  Because then I wouldn’t have to spend the rest of my weekend freaking out over the fact that Monday will be the first day of my new job. At Bettencourt Bank.

  “Welcome to Bettencourt.” There are twelve of us seated in the conference room for our orientation.

  With every bit of my nearly non-existent religious education, I’m praying Tristan is a hands-off boss who spends most of his time locked up in his office. What are the chances he’ll stoop to meeting a bunch of newbies on their very first day? Maybe, just maybe, I won’t lose the most sought-after job in my graduating class before lunch.

  Even though my mom left me for a billionaire, I need this job. The tiny shoebox I live in isn’t cheap, and my staggering school loans won’t go away on their own. Just like Tristan himself, I am a hedge fund heir—not that I’ll inherit a dime. I’m not bitter, or at least I try not to be. But Tristan and I belong to different worlds, and in mine biology doesn’t count for shit.

  I was lured to Manhattan by those stories my mother spun so many years ago, a tempting web of glitter and gold. Just like her, I came here to be someone. But unlike her, I intend to make my own fortune. I’ll never count on a man for anything.

  Most of Bettencourt’s hires have graduate degrees, and I was lucky to be granted an interview, let alone snag the brass ring—an actual job.

  Which is why I ran away from Tristan on Friday night. Screwing around with a Bettencourt will screw up my entire future. And even though I’m sure it would have been the best night of my life—I can’t take the risk.

  So far, our morning has been spent filling out paperwork, taking pictures for our ID cards, and being fingerprinted. Security is as tight as I imagine it would be if I was joining the FBI. Although our starting salaries are probably higher than a ten-year veteran of the Bureau.

  For the next twenty minutes or so, Megan, the woman responsible for our training class, shares the history of the bank. From the original Tristan James Xavier Bettencourt’s noble lineage in France to his son Tristan James Xavier Bettencourt II’s expansion into England and America. Bettencourt III, she explains, led the bank in a new and exciting direction by launching a hedge fund division when he took over and making the difficult decision to close down all US-based commercial banking operations. Bettencourt still has a few offices in Europe, and one in Bermuda, servicing high net worth individuals, but here in the financial capital of the world, its family of funds are some of the best performing on Wall Street.

  For the next six months, the twelve of us will rotate through all areas of Bettencourt—marketing, research, trading, investments, account management, sales, etc.—as well as having the opportunity to work with a few fund-specific teams, before earning a permanent place in one of them . . . Or not. “I suggest you look around this room,” Megan says. “Half of you will not be offered a permanent position at the end of your training. Think of this as a six-month job interview.”

  I study my competition. There is only one other woman seated at the conference table, a skinny brunette whose eyes, when she looks up from the copious notes she is scribbling, glare at me through her thick glasses. Got it, I think. She’s not here to make friends either.

  “And now I’d like to introduce you to the man responsible for the most successful fund launch Bettencourt has ever had.” Our den mother smiles brightly as the door at the back of the conference room opens. “It’s my understanding that there is one spot open on his team, so watch out for flying elbows as I’m quite sure many, if not all of you, will be fighting for it. Please welcome—”

  I hold my breath. Please don’t let it be Tristan. Please don’t let it be Tristan. And suddenly, just by saying his name to myself, I am right back where I was on Friday night, naked and moaning, completely captivated by—

  “—Tristan James Xavier Bettencourt, the fourth.”

  Chapter 4

  @BettencourtBets: Welcome to Bettencourt’s newest crop of wannabe bankers—12 hopefuls vying for 6 spots! Has a favorite already emerged?

  Tristan

  The smile on my face hangs by a thread. I don’t have time to give some kind of pep talk to a dozen kids, half of whom won’t be working here in six months. Even when I played hockey, I hated the forced congeniality of the pre-game locker room before I could get on the ice. There, I knew exactly what my mission was—get the puck in the net and bulldoze anyone who got in my way. Period.

  These days, my goal is just as straightforward—make money. And I’m damn good at it. But because of my last name, I also get stuck with a lot of the glad-handing. I don’t
mind, too much, when it’s with someone who has the authority to sign contracts and wire funds. Sucking up to potential investors is just part of the job. Not my favorite part, but a necessary evil.

  Welcoming the rookies is a necessary evil too, albeit one I would gladly hand off to someone else. Unfortunately, the only other person in the building who shares my last name has dumped it squarely in my lap.

  I’d nearly forgotten about it, too, but Megan begged my assistant to make sure I walked into conference room 29D at exactly 11:45. So here I am, walking into conference room 29D, contemplating firing my assistant.

  I wave off the smattering of applause that accompanies my arrival and walk around the table, giving a brief, and maybe a little begrudging, nod at Megan before turning to face Bettencourt’s newest training class. Except that when I open my mouth to launch into my obligatory speech, it turns to ash on my tongue. There, front and center, is the face that has occupied most of my waking and sleeping hours since the moment her smile gave me a sunburn.

  Reina St. James.

  She looks completely different than she did on Friday. Just as beautiful, to be sure, but in a more subtle, subdued way. The blonde hair that fell down her back like a curtain of spun gold is now pulled away from her face, and her stunning figure is hidden beneath a conservative business suit. Her eyes, however, still glimmer with the same mix of shame and chagrin that gutted me on Friday night.

  After a long moment of awkward silence, Megan covers for me by introducing everyone seated at the table with a quippy fact about each. She could be speaking another language until she gets to the only person in the room I want to hear more about. “Reina St. James. She’s a recent graduate of Columbia University and won the Bettencourt-sponsored investment contest three out of her four years.”

  A flush pinkens Reina’s skin, and she breaks our gaze to look down at her notebook. Megan moves on to the next person seated at the table, but I interrupt. “That’s quite an accomplishment, Miss St. James. You should swing by my office later so we can discuss your successful investment strategy.”

  Is my suggestion casual enough not to broadcast my single-minded interest in Reina to everyone in the room? I have no idea. Maybe it would help if I could look away from her to find out.

  Reina’s expression is intentionally blank when she lifts her head again, though she cannot shield her bright green eyes. I want to dive deep inside them, submerge myself within their luminous depths.

  Megan looks back and forth between us and then lets out an excited chortle, clearly thrilled by my interest. “I’m sure Reina would welcome the opportunity for some individual interaction with you.”

  Her arms still flapping, she moves on to the next person even as my attention remains riveted on Reina. A recent graduate of Columbia University. Not Columbia Business School. Unless Megan misspoke, which I’ve never known her to do, and barring any unusual circumstance, that would make Reina twenty-one. Maybe twenty-two. Jesus.

  I should’ve trusted my instincts. I knew Reina looked young. The longer I stand in the room the angrier I get. Mostly, at myself.

  I finally drag my gaze away from Reina, knowing I’ve already shown too much interest in her. After Megan finishes her introductions, I somehow manage to get through my welcome speech without actually tripping over any of my own words. It isn’t easy. Reina’s emerald stare is like an anchor, inexorably pulling my attention toward her. With each eyeful, a pulse of confusion and desire shoots through my veins. I wrap up, endure another burst of applause, and excuse myself.

  Not fast enough, though.

  “Mr. Bettencourt,” Megan calls before I make it out the door. “If now is convenient, I’m sure Reina would love some one-on-one time with you.”

  Reina

  I follow Tristan like a lamb being led to the slaughter. One-on-one time with Tristan? I had plenty of that on Friday night, thank you very much. More than enough.

  In any other situation, I would’ve enjoyed the jealous stares burning through my back as I earned the attention of a man we’re all trying to impress. But today I would rather be one of them, a newbie who hasn’t received the slightest notice yet, either positive or negative. While Tristan can offer me a permanent position, he can just as easily have me fired—and I’m afraid to guess which way he’s leaning.

  Mustering up the nerve to glance at his profile, I find his expression completely impassive, impossible to read. And he offers no hints as he leads me down the hall, to the elevator, down another hall, and into his private office with a silent, sure-footed gait. He is a big man, and most would lumber rather than walk. But not Tristan. He prowls.

  The entire time, I’m reminded of how good it felt to be led through a crowded ballroom with his hand at the small of my back, to have him toy with my zipper in the elevator and whisper deliciously dirty thoughts into my ear. Or even better, lifted in his arms and carried to his bed. I give myself a mental shake. Damn it, Reina, get your mind out of Bettencourt’s bedroom.

  After what feels like forever, Tristan stops at an open door. I look around, hoping to get a sense of him, but his office is just as impersonal as his apartment. A space designed for him, by someone else. Here, the furniture is dark and traditional, completely the opposite of his apartment. Several paintings hang on the walls and they look expensive, with heavy gold frames. I doubt Tristan chose them, either.

  He closes the door behind us, and I follow him across the large room to a seating arrangement near the windows, purposely choosing a chair facing away from the clear wall that looks out on an array of desks clustered in the interior of the building. I don’t want to take the chance of someone watching me watch him.

  And there, on the table, is an array of magazines arranged in a fan. Tristan stares out at me from one of them. I run a finger over the headline. The New Face of High Finance.

  I swallow down a bitter laugh. A lot of good it does me now.

  Sixty hours ago I walked out on IVy, and today he holds the key to my future in his hands. I have to convince him not to fire me. And not only that—to let me work directly for him.

  I’ve spent the weekend researching everything about the fund he manages. In a market flooded by quant-heavy, high-frequency trading strategies, Tristan stunned investment experts last year by launching Polaris, a back-to-basics, value-investing hedge fund and blowing away every benchmark. He’s the hottest fund manager in New York right now and I want in.

  Even with my dream job on the line, I feel a rush of lust as he sits down across from me. Shit. In school, I harnessed my ambition and work ethic to earn straight A’s and nearly perfect test scores. And although I dated—or what passed for dating in college—I avoided boys in my classes or sharing my same major. I didn’t need that kind of drama. I had two goals: graduate at the top of my class and land a high-paying, fast-paced job on Wall Street. Distraction was to be avoided at all costs.

  And it worked. Here I am, an ID badge for the most sought-after firm in New York slung around my neck.

  Sitting across from a man who has traced my naked skin with his tongue, has buried his face between my thighs as I moaned his name.

  I am so screwed.

  And not in a good way.

  Today Tristan wears a dark navy suit, with just the thinnest hint of a pinstripe. Who knew pinstripes could be so sexy? Although on him, anything would be sexy. Stop it. I cross my legs, heat blooming inside me as my hemline rises from the movement. My thighs tingle as if they’re still held captive between his knees.

  “Can I get you something? Water, soda?” His steely gaze cuts right through me, tempered only by a faint, lopsided grin playing at the corners of his lips. So faint there’s barely a trace of his dimple. “No cocktails, I’m afraid.”

  I struggle to match his calm, even tone. How can he sound so normal? “Water would be great, TJ.”

  There’s a pause, a slight narrowing of his eyes. “I think it would be best if you call me Tristan.”

  “Right. I guess we nev
er really were friends, after all.”

  He doesn’t comment, merely walks to a small refrigerator concealed behind mahogany paneling, and returns with a clear plastic bottle. Our fingers brush as he hands it to me, sending an electric current racing up my spine. “I have to say, I don’t know many twenty-five-year-old recent graduates.”

  My palm is damp, and the water bottle is covered in a thin film of condensation. It slips through my fingers and drops to the floor, rolling right back to Tristan’s feet. I choke out a response, my mouth dry. “I’ll be twenty-four in a few months.”

  His only reaction is to bend down and toss the bottle into a recycling bin in the corner of the room. “You lied to me.”

  “I didn’t think it would matter,” I answer plaintively. “And so did—”

  “In other words, you find the truth irrelevant when it doesn’t suit your purposes.” With smooth movements, he crosses the room to retrieve another bottle and returns, extending it to me. Gone is the man who shamelessly stole me away from my date on Friday night, exuding a rakish charm I found so captivating. In his place is a sullen, scowling businessman who is taking perverse pleasure in feeding me an enormous slice of humble pie.

  And I have no other option but to choke down every bite.

  Discreetly running my palms along my skirt, I take the water. “It was just a tiny—”

  “Most college grads are twenty-one, twenty-two at the oldest. Sometimes older if they’ve had a stint in the military.” Tristan’s eyes rake over me, seeing beneath my carefully chosen layers as easily as he lowered the zipper of my dress on Friday night, turning it into a silk puddle on his floor. “I can’t picture you in army fatigues.”

  Tristan has an unnerving habit of asking questions without actually asking a question. “No. I changed schools in my freshman year of high school, repeating the grade because of a difference in age requirements.”