by Tara Leigh
No, no, no. I continue the charade. “Have we . . . ?”
“You can cut the crap. We’re practically family, after all.”
Family. The word slices through me like a switchblade. Wendy Whitaker was born Gwendolyn Van Horne, daughter of Gerald. My mother’s stepdaughter. My half-sister. Technically, we are related by blood—but she is not my family.
I can practically feel my pupils dilating, and have to squint against the bright studio lights. My mouth opens but no sound emerges. What is there to say?
Wendy Whitaker, on the other hand, has no such problem. She continues unabated. “At least you had the good sense not to follow your home-wrecking mother into her new marriage. I looked into her background years ago, when I was just a cub reporter at a local station. I’ve known Gayle had a daughter for years now.” She takes a small step back, studying my features. “You look just like her, you know.”
There is, however, a silver lining to this awful conversation. Confirmation that the truth of my parentage remains my secret. But for how long?
Wendy’s nose might be sculpted down to nothing, but I’ll bet she can smell a scandal from a mile away. She’s sitting on top of a huge scoop—a headline that would make all of her other stories pale in comparison. I’m not just my mother’s daughter, I’m her father’s daughter, too. Her half-sister. And if it would benefit her career, I have no doubt she’d exploit every seedy detail.
I have to get out of here.
Looking away from Wendy, I scan the studio for Tristan. When I spot him coming out of the green room, his face freshly washed, new shirt on, I’m hit by the echo of the lie I told him over orange juice and breakfast pizza before we left New York. My parents are dead.
A thorny vine of panic wraps around my ribs, pricking me with every breath. It was a careless, well-practiced lie. I didn’t even think twice about it at the time. But now . . .
Wendy’s low chuckle breaks through my fog of worry and I realize I’ve unknowingly dropped my guard. She is staring at me with a contemptuous glint in her eyes. And she’s seen too much. “You might want to be a little more discreet, honey. Falling hard for a billionaire is such a cliché. Like mother, like daughter, I guess.” She purses her lips, considering. “At least this one’s not married. That’s something.”
Fighting against the tightness in my throat, I muster up the kind of smile that reflects Wendy’s animosity back at her. “You might think your little Google search means you know me. It doesn’t. And let’s get something straight—I am nothing like my mother.”
With Tristan just a few paces away, I raise my voice. “Again, so lovely to meet you Ms. Whitaker.”
“And you,” she says stiffly, before giving Tristan an air kiss on both cheeks. “Come back soon. The camera loves your face.”
Two minutes later, we’re enclosed in the air-conditioned comfort of a Lincoln Town Car, on our way to meet the rest of the team. “Glad that’s over,” he says, releasing a deep sigh and pulling out his phone, checking the markets before calling into the New York office and firing off a series of directives at his traders for the remainder of the ride.
Not as glad as I am. Normally I’d be listening intently to everything Tristan is saying. He’s brilliant, and can predict how the most minor, seemingly inconsequential, event can affect an investment. But my interaction with Wendy is still echoing loudly in my mind, drowning out everything else.
I’m still well aware of Tristan’s proximity, my skin hyper-sensitive for even the most casual touch. But his words are just an incongruous sea of sounds. I can’t even gather my thoughts to reply to Megan’s message, asking me how the road show is going so far. Everyone else in our training class is back in New York, and I think she worries that I may have bitten off more than I can chew.
Maybe I have.
I hate that Wendy was able to see right through me. But it’s the lesson I need to finally come to my senses. I have to stop whatever is brewing between Tristan and me before it blows up in my face.
Tristan wanted to rewrite our awkward ending, and on this trip we have. There’s a camaraderie between us now. But that’s all it can be. If we take things any further, I’m risking too much. No one will ever take me seriously.
The best way to stand up to bullies like Wendy Whitaker and Gerald Van Horne is by achieving the kind of success they’ll respect. The kind of success I’ve been chasing all my life. And no one, not even Tristan Bettencourt, is going to stop me.
Tristan
I cringe at the latest BettencourtBets tweet, offended by the irreverently knowing tone, the tongue-in-cheek snark. Bettencourt is a goddamn hedge fund, one of the most well-respected in the industry, not some two-bit OTB shoved between a bodega and pawn shop in a rundown strip mall.
Until a few minutes ago, my entire road show team was in the room. Reina was just packing her laptop into her bag, on her way back to her own room, when the tweet landed on my phone.
After clicking on the embedded link, I angle my screen so that Reina can watch the clip with me. My jaw goes slack as we watch several minutes of sparring between me and Wendy Whitaker, not a word of which relates to Polaris. “Jesus Christ, you were right!”
Wendy Whitaker and her producers have cleverly spliced my interview into a series of questions and answers focused mainly on my personal life. It isn’t particularly juicy, but I certainly don’t come off as anyone’s first choice for investing half a billion dollars.
“I can’t believe Wendy pulled this crap on me. Tell me the network isn’t actually airing this.” I’m exhausted, but watching the heavily edited version of my interview has me all fired up.
Reina opens the laptop she’d only just closed and begins typing furiously. “No,” she says, swiveling the screen toward me and playing a different clip, one where I actually sound like a hedge fund manager and not some charlatan with more money than sense.
Reina bites at her lip. “This isn’t the end of the world, Tristan. It’s typical clickbait. You’re a rich, good-looking, eligible bachelor and she’s using that to boost her follow count and generate buzz for your interview.”
I grunt. “In this business, it’s better to be known for my stock-picking prowess than my dating status.”
“It’s your dating status that has the society pages and tabloids all over you. You’re like Wall Street’s JFK Junior.”
I sputter a distinctly humorless chuckle. “Yeah, and look where that got him. No, thanks.”
“It wouldn’t be such a bad idea to take a page out of his book though. People were still calling him John-John when he was dating Madonna and Daryl Hannah. No one really took him seriously until he got married to a society darling.” She blushes, closing her laptop and hugging it to her chest. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t— it’s not my place.”
“No. I want to hear what you have to say.” I brace myself. “Keep going.”
“Really, your personal life is none of my business.”
I frown, realizing that I want my personal life to be her business. I want Reina to be a part of my personal life. For how long, I don’t know. Only time will tell. But for now, for the foreseeable future . . . Yes. “Enough. Say it.”
She looks down at her skirt, picking off imaginary pieces of lint as I wait for her answer. If she thinks I’ll let her off the hook, she’s wrong. When there’s no lint left to find, imaginary or otherwise, Reina sighs. “Look, don’t kill the messenger. But if you want to be taken seriously, to put an end to the gossip about who you’re sleeping with—you need to take control of the narrative. Find someone who will make a good wife. Someone like—”
“You?” I cut in, wondering if I’ve misjudged Reina entirely. Maybe she’s not so different from the other women I’ve known, after all.
“Me?” Her confused, wide-eyed gaze should be a dead giveaway that I’ve made a wrong turn.
“Yes.” For my own peace of mind, I force myself to ask the question outright. “Are you applying for the position?”
“Absolute
ly not. You need someone beautiful, classy. Someone with a last name as well-respected as yours.”
Her answer gets under my skin, but in an entirely unexpected way.
It’s not as if Reina has the same problem my friend Tripp does, where his name might as well be Madoff. There’s no whiff of scandal, no notorious history. But I know what she’s implying—that she’s less important because of it. Unworthy.
And, unfortunately, there are plenty of people who would agree with her. “Have you been talking to my stepmother?”
Reina laughs, normally a delicious sound I wish I could record and play on repeat. But right now, her laughter is thin and shrill. Not melodic or joyous at all. “Nope, not a word. And somehow I doubt your stepmother would give me the time of day.”
She’s right, of course. Reina’s independence, her work ethic—these are qualities my stepmother would never appreciate. But I do. “People like my stepmother aren’t worth a second of your time.”
“That’s sweet,” she says. “Completely delusional, but sweet. One day, you’ll marry someone just like her.”
My stomach turns. “Never.”
“Don’t tell me you’re such a romantic that you’re still waiting to find your soulmate. Your one true love.” She wrinkles her nose.
A romantic? No. But I’m no so jaded to think that love doesn’t exist. I’ve seen it up close, with my parents. And I’ve witnessed two distinctly different marriages—one with love, and one without. I know which kind I want for myself.
The lens through which I’ve been studying Reina grows a little thicker, a coating of curiosity and maybe even a little pity sharpening the image. “You don’t believe in love?”
“Not exactly. I believe love exists, probably, but the chances of it lasting a lifetime are only slightly higher than winning the lottery. Half of all marriages end in divorce. And of the other half, how many are actually happy?” Reina lifts her shoulders in a nonchalant shrug. “But, as ridiculous as it is, married men are considered more stable, more responsible, more trustworthy. Which is why I think you should find someone appropriate, have her sign an iron-clad pre-nup, and tie the knot. You can always untie it in a couple of years.”
When I don’t respond, she points to the tweet, redirecting my attention back to the rapidly escalating number of likes and shares. “People are interested in you, Tristan. And they’re very interested in your sex life. But if you’re linked with too many women, no one will take you seriously. And if you’re seen with the wrong woman, people will doubt your judgment.”
I’m taken off guard by Reina’s cynicism. I understand the root of her feelings, but the fruit borne from it is bruised and rotten. There’s nothing wrong with Reina. Our situation, yes. The fact that I’m her boss, coupled with our ten year age difference, is definitely problematic. But I’d be proud to have her on my arm and I can’t imagine anyone who wouldn’t be.
“Why should I care what strangers think about my personal life? It’s nothing but gossip and rumor.”
“And you don’t think that affects your public image?” She extends her hands toward me, lifting them up and down. “Your whole package may have gotten you this far—”
“My package?” I ask teasingly, hoping to lighten the mood, but Reina doesn’t take the bait.
“Call it what you want, but there aren’t many former hockey-playing hedgies out there who make me fantasize about being pinned up against the boards.” As soon as the words leave her mouth, it’s obvious Reina regrets them. Bright spots of color bloom on her cheeks, and she closes her laptop with a snap. “It’s late, I should go.”
I stand up at the same time she does. “I’d pin you up against anything, any time. In fact, I distinctly remember doing it already. Twice.” My cock springs to life. “I’m not going to lie, I wouldn’t mind going for round three. I hear it’s a charm.”
Reina isn’t charmed.
“Not a good idea,” she says quickly.
“Why not? We’re in a hotel room. It could be our secret.”
“What did you say about secrets . . . That the only true ones are those you keep from yourself?” She shakes her head slowly. “You and I both know this isn’t going anywhere, Tristan. So why should we risk our careers, our reputations, for a few meaningless moments? If you’re so hard up for sex, I’m sure you could find someone willing to accommodate you at the snap of your fingers.”
Ouch. “Is that really what you think?”
“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t think it.”
“Well, you’re wrong. First of all, stop acting like you’re so goddamn replaceable. Like I’m slumming it by hanging out with you. And give me a little credit, too. If you walk out the door, I’m not going to call the concierge and tell him to send up a whore because one pussy is as good as another.”
She blanches. “That’s not—”
I’m mad now, angry at just about everything that’s come out of Reina’s mouth in the last few minutes. “And I don’t know that this isn’t going anywhere, because I can’t predict the future. Neither can you.”
“Actually, I can,” she snaps. “You’re Tristan James Xavier Bettencourt, the fourth. Your name stands for wealth and stability and trust. I’m a nobody who’d like to make a name for myself that doesn’t begin and end with—that slut who slept her way to the top. There are a thousand differences between us, but none more relevant than this: You’ll be forgiven for your missteps, while I’ll be defined by mine.”
I hate that she’s right. “You’re not a nobody to me,” I say firmly. Stepping closer, I pull the computer out of her hands and set it down on the desk. “I wish you could see what I see when I look at you. You impress the hell out of me, little thief.”
“Then either you’re crazy or you’re too easily imp—”
I silence her with one finger against her luscious mouth.
“As far as the risks we’re taking, the risks you’re taking, I get it, okay? But managing risk is what I do—all day, every day. We’re a thousand miles from New York, and we won’t be back for another week and a half. Why shouldn’t we spend tonight, or any other night, together if that’s what we want? Especially here. Especially now.”
I pull my hand away, resting it on her shoulder, my thumb against her racing pulse. “And, for what it’s worth, I don’t believe marriage is just another business deal and I don’t want a wife who does. There’s not much I won’t do for my family, for my clients, for the bank, or for my fund. But when I vow to love and cherish someone, I intend to mean it.”
Reina blinks at me in bewilderment, her breathy whisper winding its way around my chest and squeezing tight. “Every time I think I know what to do about you, you open your mouth and ruin everything.”
“Good. Because I think you were about to leave.” I cup my palm along her cheek. “And I’d really like you to stay.”
In the impersonal ambiance of this anonymous hotel room, the rest of the world feels very far away. And Reina is so damn close.
I thread my fingers through her hair, holding her at the perfect angle to receive my kiss. My other hand sweeps down her back, grinding her against me, cupping her ass, tilting her pelvis toward mine. She rewards me with a sweet, sweet moan.
Eventually, I break away from her mouth, swirling my tongue along the dewy soft skin of her neck. She tastes like flowers and clean laundry, with just a hint of an exotic spice I can’t name. “Just tonight,” she whispers. “No more.”
The conservative silk blouse that conceals Reina’s curves is held in place by tiny, frustrating-as-fuck buttons obviously not intended for male hands. I make a mental note to buy Reina a replacement, and simply take the two sides of her shirt in my hands and pull. “One night,” I agree, already knowing I’ll fight for more. The damn buttons pop off, making satisfying pings as they bounce off furniture before landing soundlessly on the carpet.
Reina’s bra is a little more co-operative, the clasp coming undone with just a quick pinch. Her skirt and panties are
next, sliding off easily. Only once she’s naked do I edge back a few inches and devour the sight of her. “Reina.” Her name is wrenched from my mouth. “You’re so goddamn beautiful.”
She doesn’t shrink from my gaze. A captivating flush warms her cheeks, traveling down her neck and fading just below the hollow dividing the delicate line of her clavicle. Fuck, I want to eat this girl alive.
I rise to my feet again, fisting her hair in my hand, pulling just hard enough that her eyes glaze with lust as I guide her backwards until her calves hit the mattress. “I’ve waited too long to have you back in my bed.”
“Then how come only one of us is naked?” she asks breathlessly.
I grin, pushing her gently onto the bed, knowing we have all night to explore each other’s bodies. She’s still wearing her heels and I pick up her right ankle, tossing the shoe to the ground and massaging her instep, my thumbs rhythmically kneading her sole.
Reina lets out a long, low groan. “Oh my God. That feels so amazing.”
Women and their sexy, ridiculous shoes.
Over the years, I’ve discovered that every woman is different in bed. What they want, what they like, how they taste. But there is one constant. Their feet always ache from their damn shoes. Forget flowers and fancy dinners, the most effective way to get a woman wet is to start with her feet.
It’s no hardship. Reina’s feet are small and shapely, her toes perfectly angled in size from her big toe to her tiny pinkie, the nails painted crimson. And with Reina sprawled out in front of me, I have the opportunity to study the rest of her, too. The curves and slopes and planes of her body. Her smooth, creamy flesh with its shadows and private, hidden places. The rounds of her breasts capped by dusky, puckered nipples. The fluttering pulse in her neck. Her high cheekbones and pink lips and burnished gold brows.
Eventually my hands travel the length of her calves, kneading the muscles there, continuing behind her kneecaps and up her splayed thighs. By the time my hands crest the top of her legs, she is mewling, begging. “So needy,” I tease.