Penthouse Prince: A new York City Romance

by Tara Leigh

Finally, Reina is back in my bed, naked and writhing, exactly where I’ve wanted her, exactly how I’ve wanted her, since the moment she ran out of my apartment.

  Reina’s hips are swiveling as she chases my touch, her thighs splayed open, her pussy wet and glistening. My voice is husky as I stroke Reina’s clit with my thumb. “Is this what you want?”

  She gasps. “Jesus, yes. Please.”

  Every breathy, needy sound that leaves Reina’s mouth makes my cock twitch, although I have no intention of letting him out of his zippered cage yet. After so much build up between us, I want more from her than capitulation. I want to hear her beg.

  But I never get the chance.

  Aggressive knocking throws an unwelcome wrench in my plans. What the fuck? We both freeze, Reina’s eyes locking onto mine. Smoldering with desire, they are a rich, mossy green, and for a long moment, transfixed, I forget about the interruption at all.

  Another round of knocking brings me back to the present. “You have to get it,” Reina says softly.

  “This is our night. They’ll go away. ”

  “They’ll come back.”

  Fuck. Reina’s juices cling to my fingers as I pull my hand away and stride toward the door.

  Kyle begins speaking before I can look through the peephole. “I just heard from one of my buddies on the West Coast. We need to talk before the market opens.”

  Inviting him in isn’t an option. I look back at Reina, feeling like the biggest douchebag on the planet. She mouthes a silent, Go, and waves me forward.

  Wait for me, I mouth back, before swallowing a frustrated sigh and brushing past Kyle into the corridor. After the recent turmoil in the Asian markets, I can’t afford to blow him off. “Sure, buddy, let’s go get a drink.”

  It doesn’t take long to down a decent scotch and come up with a trading strategy incorporating Kyle’s intel. I’m just about to charge back upstairs when he asks, “So, have you slept with her yet?”

  Kyle’s question takes me by surprise, and I gulp down a burning mouthful to give myself a minute before responding. “What are you talking about?”

  Kyle chortles. “Hear-no-evil, see-no-evil. Is that what you want from me?”

  “I have no idea what you’re referring to.” My denial rings hollow, even to my ears.

  “Jesus, Tristan. Don’t insult me. You can have any woman you want, but instead you’re banging some rookie you’ve taken under your wing. For fuck’s sake, that cliché has got Page Six written all over it. I don’t care how good your returns are or what your last name is—if anyone finds out, you’ll get absolutely crucified. And you’ll deserve it.”

  I slam down my glass. Kyle and I go back to our time as freshman at Harvard. Over the years he’s become my most trusted advisor, and one of the best portfolio managers I’ve ever known, let alone hired. But when it comes to Reina—I don’t need, or want, anyone else’s opinion. “Let this one go, Kyle.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m telling you to do.”

  I lean across the table. “Not gonna happen.”

  Kyle spreads his thumb and fingers across his forehead and pinches them together, as if he’s trying to pull his eyebrows off his face. “You could lose more than just money on this one. Whether you like it or not, the second your mug made the cover of Money, you became the new face of Bettencourt. Accusations of sexual misconduct don’t look good on anyone, and the blowback won’t just affect you and Reina. It will affect me, the team, the Polaris Fund itself, the Bettencourt brand. Are you willing to take that risk?”

  Kyle is right. I’m putting everything on the line for Reina. “I need you to trust me on this one. I don’t know how I know, but I do. She’s worth it.”

  Kyle throws me a look tinged with disgust. “Of course you can say that. You’re a Bettencourt. If this fund blows up, you have a trust fund nearly as big as Polaris to rely on. You can lick your wounds in Ibiza for the rest of your life, waited on by bimbos in bikinis, and never have to worry about a thing. But for the rest of us schmucks, if this fund goes bust because our investors get cold feet after realizing their portfolio manager is more interested in chasing skirts than chasing alpha, we’ll all be painted with the same bone-headed brush.”

  The hostility in his tone leaves me rattled. “Kyle, you know me better than that. Polaris isn’t just some hobby for me. And I’m sure as hell not going sabotage my career over a booty call.” I’ve spent thirty-three years following the playbook set out for me since the day I was born. Reina St. James wasn’t a part of it before, but she is now. And if that requires a change in strategy on my part, so be it. “Listen, if you want to walk out the door, I’m not going to stop you. With your track record, you can get a job with any shop on the Street.”

  “I don’t want a job somewhere else. It might be your name on the door, but I’ve put my heart and soul into making Polaris a success. This fund is as much mine as it is yours, and that goes for everyone on our team. I like Reina, I do. But that has nothing to do with my concerns. We’re only as strong as our weakest link.”

  “And you think Reina’s the weak link.”

  Kyle leans forward and puts his elbows on the table, shaking his head. “Not at all. When Reina was my student, she was at the top of the class. Which, by the way, was a graduate level course she had to get approval from the dean to enroll in. She’s as smart and hardworking as they come. For a newbie, Reina’s got great instincts. She has a real future in this business. She’s no one’s weak link.”

  He jabs a finger in my direction. “You’re the goddamn weak link, Tristan. You need to end things with her, and not just for our sake. What do you think will happen if some hack decides to fill a slow news day with a story about you two—the hedge fund heir and his gorgeous young employee. Do you really want to fuck up her career before it’s even gotten off the ground?”

  I fold my arms across my chest, a useless barrier to deflect the arrows being launched from across the table. None of what Kyle is saying makes me want Reina less. “We’re not exactly broadcasting it on CNBC’s crawl.”

  Kyle lets out a derisive snort. “You don’t have to. It’s all over your face every time she walks in the room.”

  Shit. I’ve always been better at sports than poker. Letting an opponent know exactly what you think of them without actually saying a word is an asset. But obviously that isn’t the case in this situation. “I can work on that.”

  “Yeah? Well, you’d better do it before someone snaps a picture of that hangdog look on your face and tweets it out as a meme.”

  I sigh. The number of BettencourtBets followers, already an offensive multiple of all Bettencourt employees, is growing by the day. Between tweets and retweets, half of Wall Street is privy to my every move. It’s infuriating. “I will.”

  But Kyle isn’t finished. He has a lot to lose if our fund tanks—millions in bonuses and incentives, not to mention his reputation as one of Wall Street’s most talented analysts. “What do you really know about her, Tristan? Besides that she’s kicking ass on every task she’s given and blowing the pants off her training class competition. If you’re risking damn near everything for Reina, you had better be sure she’s worth it.”

  He’s repeating exactly what I thought about Reina the moment I laid eyes on her—she’s high return, high risk. Not for the casual investor. “Once we get back to New York, it won’t be long before she rotates to a different group. She’s not going to work on Polaris for her entire six-month training program.”

  “You sure you’ll let her go?”

  No. “Yeah, I’m sure.” I toss back the last of my scotch. “You want to give me my balls back now?” If there’s a chance Reina’s still in my room, I intend to use them.

  Chapter 8

  @BettencourtBets: Why fly private if you don’t join the Mile High Club?

  Reina

  As the door closes behind Tristan, I should feel like I’ve been saved by the bell. But I don’t feel saved. What I feel is abandoned, and sticky. A
nd some combination of defeated and disillusioned that I don’t have a word for.

  For a few minutes I consider waiting in Tristan’s bed, like he wants me to.

  I imagine the metallic whir of the electronic lock springing open, the grind of gears as the knob turns. Will I see a look of pleased relief on Tristan’s face when he finds me here, still naked beneath his sheets like a wrapped present? Will he pull at the covers slowly, exposing one inch of my body at a time? Or will he be impatient and ravenous? Will—

  Stop it. I slam the door on my overactive imagination before I’m lost in a fantasy. Tristan has me so wrapped up in what could be that I’m ignoring what is.

  And now that he’s gone, the magic spell he cast is broken. I come back to my senses with a hard thump.

  I have to get out of Tristan’s room, and out of his bed, before he comes back. Before he convinces me that up is down, down is up, and wrong is right.

  Not bothering to put my underwear back on, I step into my skirt and shrug into the blazer I tossed casually over the back of a settee hours ago. Unsurprisingly, my defaced blouse is useless. Just twenty minutes before, ripping open my shirt seemed so primal, but now I curse Tristan for sending my buttons hurtling around the room. Burrowing beneath the bed and pawing the carpet in search of seven tiny pieces of shell, their color almost indistinguishable from the creamy rug, is decidedly not sexy.

  With all except one tucked inside my pocket, I stuff the remnants of my outfit between the screen and keyboard of my laptop, and speed-walk from Tristan’s room to my own down the hall. I swear it is the longest minute and a half of my life. If I run into any of my new colleagues, I’ll be hard-pressed to explain my bedraggled, half-dressed state.

  Shame chases after me. Wendy Whitaker is right. I’m such a cliché—falling hard for my billionaire boss.

  After sliding the Do Not Disturb sign onto the handle, I lock the door and slide the chain link into place. There’s not enough shower gel in the mini-bottle supplied by the hotel to scrub Tristan’s spicy, masculine scent from my flesh, though I try until every inch of my body is shiny and pink. And as soon as I get out, I send Tristan a text.

  Me: Exhausted. See u on the plane tmrw.

  It’s not exactly a lie. I am exhausted, but I know it will be hours until I can fall asleep. Rather than obsess over Tristan, I choose the lesser evil and replay my conversation with Wendy Whitaker. Tonight, with my emotions so raw, I catch something behind her cruel, cutting words. A sadness beneath the spite.

  For the first time, it occurs to me that Van Horne and my mother didn’t just hurt me and my father. Their spoiled, selfish actions torpedoed his family too, and I wonder if Wendy’s two siblings are as bitter as she is.

  Wendy is the oldest of three. Her younger brother Bryce is about the same age as Tristan, and her sister Celeste about the same age as me. I open my laptop. None of the Van Hornes are press-shy, but besides the wedding, I cannot find a single photo of any of the three siblings with my mother, even when they are clearly photographed at the same event.

  I don’t often feel bad for my mom. She left me for a man who refuses to even acknowledge my existence. By her own choice, I’ve been relegated to the sidelines of her life. What kind of mother does that?

  But she hasn’t been welcomed into their family with open arms. If Wendy is any indication, maybe it’s not such a bad thing that I was never forced into a relationship with the Van Hornes.

  I’ve wielded a shovel in my hands for as long as I can remember—either digging for half-truths and outright lies or burying secrets of my own. But I always thought that once I graduated college, got a job, and lived on my own, I would finally be free. That it wouldn’t matter who my father is—or isn’t. The only thing I’d need to prove is that I’m good at my job. Period.

  Falling for Tristan has complicated everything. I was drawn to him when he was just TJ, a gorgeous guy in a tux with old-school, Pierce Brosnan looks and sexy AF mouth. But now, my attraction to him goes so much deeper than just wanting to jump his bones. Confusing, confounding, terrifying reasons.

  The effect he has on me feels like a narcotic. And I’m already addicted. What happens when the supply runs out? When Tristan decides he’s had enough of his latest toy, me, and goes after someone new? A month ago, I didn’t crave Tristan’s attention, his approval. A month ago, I relied solely on myself. But now . . .

  The craving I feel for him is real, and bone-deep. It curls around me like smoke, penetrating my pores, my lungs, my blood. There is no part of me he’s spared.

  But even in this new, uncharted space, in a body I barely recognize as my own, some rules are as old as time.

  Girls like me don’t ride off into the sunset with men like Tristan.

  They get left behind in the dirt.

  Like roadkill.

  I settle into the plush leather seats of the Bettencourt plane, purposely choosing the one furthest from Tristan. We are flying to Washington, DC, for the day, then continuing on to San Francisco for a Global Initiative Gala sponsored by Zuckerberg, Gates, and a few other Silicon Valley superstars. The top one percent of the top one percent.

  Claire, who works in the marketing department and is the only other woman on this trip, drops into the empty seat beside me, clutching a can of Diet Coke as if her life depends on it. “Hiya,” she murmurs.

  I respond with similarly quick, quiet greeting. I’ve noticed that on our early morning flights, no one really perks up until after takeoff.

  Which is fine with me. I’m content to sip my coffee and pretend I don’t feel Tristan’s stare burning a hole in my back. The events of yesterday are still weighing me down. I’m carrying so much baggage, it’s a relief when the plane lifts off the ground with barely a shudder.

  Thirty thousand feet above the earth, surrounded by glittering crystal and elegant wood paneling, every need met by an attentive staff just waiting for an opening to be of service—it’s impossible not to feel the enormous chasm between what is and what can never be.

  The world is so very different for the rich. Maybe money can’t actually buy happiness, but it sure makes stewing in misery a lot more comfortable.

  “Are you afraid to fly, Reina?” Claire is frowning at my tight grip on the armrest.

  I release it with an embarrassed flush, brushing off the evidence of my nerves with a harmless white lie. “I geeked out a little too hard on Greek mythology as a kid. I think Icarus’s fatal flight may have scarred me.” Soaring too close to the sun on glued-together wings, Icarus plummeted back to the earth as his father looked on in horror.

  Maybe it’s not such a white lie after all. It does feel like I’m aiming too high, daring fate to send me back where I belong. Despite the clear skies, there’s plenty of turbulence inside my mind.

  She laughs. “Not me. My mom was a flight attendant who married a pilot. My older sister is a flight attendant who married a pilot. My younger sister became a pilot, and she married her co-pilot. In our family, all planes take off and land with no problems whatsoever. No other outcomes are possible. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.”

  “So what do you do when the news has footage of a plane cr—”

  “Nope,” Claire interrupts. “That word is not part of my language. But, to answer your question, if, by chance, we can’t turn off the tv fast enough, then it’s just a show. Or a movie. Like the shark in Jaws isn’t actually a shark. It’s just a mechanical robot built to look like a shark. And the dragons in Game of Thrones are just digital creations, nothing more than special effects. None of it’s real, and it certainly isn’t dangerous.”

  “You’ve created your own little bubble.” My voice is blatantly envious. I wish I could do that—ignore the obvious and shape my own ideal reality.

  “Exactly.” She lifts up her can. “And, as far as I’m concerned, I’m still living in it.”

  “Cheers to that,” I say, bumping my Starbucks against her Diet Coke.

  “So, how are you settling in? Y
ou’ve kind of been thrown to the wolves, coming out on the road before getting through the training program.”

  “It’s been amazing. Everything I hoped it would be, and more. I’ve wanted to work for a hedge fund for so long, and I’m just really grateful to be here.”

  Claire chokes on her soda. “Oh, God. I honestly don’t even remember what it was like to be you—so green and happy just to have a seat at the table. But I’m going to give you some unsolicited advice I’m sure you’d eventually figure out on your own.” She pauses to look around, then lowers her voice. “Two words. Fuck gratitude. Say it with me.”

  “Fuck gratitude,” I repeat, feeling like an idiot.

  Discomfort that Claire picks up on. “No. Say it again, like there’s not a question mark at the end of it.”

  This time I take her more seriously. “Fuck gratitude.” Keeping my voice still low, but steady.

  “Better. Now, remember that. Because you are not grateful for your seat at the table, or your year-end bonus, or anything else in this job. You deserve to have your voice heard and your work rewarded. Gratitude gets you dicked over, hard.”

  “Got it,” I say solemnly, deciding that this is just the kind of straight talk I need today. “I’ll get myself a strap-on, asap.”

  Like Tristan and my Van Horne half-siblings, I graduated from an elite New England boarding school and earned an Ivy League degree. But unlike any of them, I’ve been hired by the hottest hedge fund on Wall Street—on my own merit, not because of my last name. I am more than just some pompous billionaire’s dirty little secret with my nose pressed against his glass window.

  Claire’s lips twitch as she narrows her eyes at me. “I think you’re going to do just fine, Reina. Welcome to the penis party.”

  Tristan

  I feel a breeze as Reina walks right by the empty seat next to me. I’m disappointed, though not surprised. My room was empty when I returned last night, just the faint notes of her perfume lingering in the air. And when I went to call her, I saw that she’d already texted me.