by Tara Leigh
A brush off.
Part of me wanted to show up at her door. But a louder part told me to give Reina her space.
And I know she made the right choice this morning. I don’t like it, but I respect it. If she’d been sitting right next to me, it would be impossible not to let my hand slide between her thighs, or turn my head toward the curve of her neck to sneak a glimpse of her cleavage, or breathe deep the scent of her perfume. Of course she can’t sit next to me, not while we’re surrounded by people who cannot know how badly I want to rip her clothes off. Or how close we’ve already come to giving in to the pull of pheromones and raw lust.
Even the thought of Reina in my bed is like a match to a flame. And the next time we’re alone, I’ll be damned if anything comes between us. Not Kyle or the markets. Not Reina’s doubts or my obligations.
Which is exactly why I should be grateful to Reina for sitting as far away from me as she could get on this G550 jet. What am I thinking, letting myself get so wrapped up in her silken hair and deliciously long legs that work feels like an imposition? Since when hasn’t Polaris been my biggest priority?
Kyle is right. My desire for Reina might easily blow up in my face, and if it does, or as he insisted, when it does—we’ll all get burned.
Then again, what if we slake our hunger for each other on this trip? Maybe when we get back to New York, I won’t be so goddamned obsessed with her. How can anyone sustain this level of lust? It can’t be healthy. Objectively, it’s the smartest solution—a short-term fling while we’re far from the office. We can keep our affair under wraps if we’re discreet.
I reach into my pocket, rubbing Reina’s smooth, almost slippery button with my thumb. I found it this morning on the top of the dresser where it must have landed last night. It feels like a talisman. A good luck charm.
I shoot a glance Reina’s way, my hands itching to cup her head and bring her mouth to . . .
Discreet, remember?
Okay, yeah. Reina’s bypassing the seat next to mine was definitely the right move.
I just wish it didn’t feel so goddamn wrong.
Chapter 9
@BettencourtBets: The best part about getting out of the office . . . An exciting new SHOWMANCE, of course!
Reina
Before leaving New York, I nearly maxed out my credit card on the black-tie gown I’m wearing tonight. Initially I’d balked at the price tag of the shimmering gray metallic, one-shouldered Hervé Léger, but as I walk into the ballroom of the Ritz-Carlton, I’m thankful for its elegant silhouette. It’s as conservative as a “bandage dress” can be, molding to my waist before tapering to a mermaid-style skirt. Simple and elegant, it flatters my figure without screaming bombshell.
If you don’t look to closely at my teardrop earrings, which are cubic zirconia rather than diamonds, I look as if I belong in this glittering ballroom overflowing with the Forbes 400, with millions in the bank or a family lineage I can trace back for centuries. Possibly both.
Tristan materializes at my side just as I accept a champagne flute from a passing waiter, the glass nearly slipping from my fingers. It isn’t fair that he’s more attractive than everyone else in the room. He was born with too good of a hand, truly. Tight-knit family, more wealth than could be spent in ten lifetimes, star athlete, brilliant . . . Does he have to be so goddamn gorgeous, too?
“Are you planning on making a toast?”
“Hmmm? Oh.” I realize my arm is still mid-air and bring the rim to my lips.
Tristan leans toward me, his mouth hovering above my ear for a moment. Just long enough to whisper, “You’re stunning, little thief.”
The champagne bombs down my throat like a roller coaster diving from the highest peak. I cough, eyes watering as I wave my hand in front of my face. “Don’t do that to me.”
He claps me on the back. “Are you allergic to compliments?”
I lob what I hope is a warning look, but given my stinging eyes it probably comes off as a plea for a tissue. “There are too many ears in this room.”
“We could have been alone last night.”
“We were. Until we weren’t.” I notice the man coming our way. “Kyle.”
Tristan’s eyes narrow. “Kyle?”
“At your service, my friend.” My former professor’s hand clamps down on Tristan’s shoulder.
“More like chaperone,” he says with a scowl.
“Friend, chaperone . . .” Kyle’s unconcerned shrug is a product of the heavy bond of respect between them. “Tonight you get two-for-one. And speaking of favorable ratios, there are more potential investors under this roof than we’ve met with in the past week. Let’s get a drink and work the room.”
“Fine. Rei—”
“Reina is going to do some recon work of her own,” Kyle interrupts, giving me a pointed look I take to mean: I know what you’ve been doing and it needs to stop. Tonight is too important to fuck up. “I’ve asked the rest of our team to circulate, gather intel. She can do the same.”
My heart races as I nod at Kyle. He knows. Oh my god, he knows. “Of course. Absolutely.” So much for managing risk and staying under the radar. Who else knows about us?
I want to explain and apologize all at once. But all I can do is turn a silently beseeching gaze to Tristan. We can’t do this now. Forget I’m here.
I feel the heat of his stare on me as I walk away, searing through the fabric covering my back and setting my spine aflame. But it doesn’t deter me from doing my job.
There is a greater wealth of market knowledge in this room than in the faculty rosters of the top ten business schools combined. I’ve dreamed of opportunities like this since I was a teenager, and as I mingle with the wealthy and well-connected crowd, I soak up the energy in the room like desert sand in a rainstorm. Politicians, tech billionaires, titans of industry, money makers, philanthropists, and financiers. I keep my ears open and my mind on high alert for anything that might be of interest.
I’m just taking a breather, deciding who to approach next when Alex, the research analyst on our road show team, appears at my side. “Pick up any useful intel?”
“Maybe.” I share a few snippets with him.
He nods. “Tristan and Kyle will want to know. Good job.”
“Thanks.” Alex is a few years older than me, attractive in a boy-next-door way. Cute. Nice.
Not my type.
“I was thinking, maybe later we could grab a drink or something.”
Is Alex . . . asking me out? I blink at him, my brain processing this new development. If Alex knew about me and Tristan, this wouldn’t be happening. Maybe there’s a chance that our secret is confined to just Kyle. I lift my still half-full glass, feeling almost giddy with relief. “Isn’t that what we’re doing?”
“Right, of course.” He tenders a shy smile. “I just meant, you know, later on. Maybe just us.”
Oh, hell no.
It isn’t poor Alex with his tentative advances that makes my stomach drop. It’s the couple at the other end of the room. A woman who looks like she could be my older sister and the silver-haired man at her side wearing a Savile Row tuxedo that accentuates his straight spine and broad shoulders.
Stepping closer to Alex, I maneuver myself behind him and force a blazing smile onto my lips. “How about now?”
God, I am a coward. But as gorgeous as my Hervé Léger dress is, it’s nowhere close to the suit of armor required for a face-to-face meeting with my parents.
Although I hate myself for running away, for shirking my responsibilities to the Polaris team, I know I can’t stay here another second.
If Van Horne feels that I’m the slightest threat to him, or even just a minor annoyance, he’ll find a way to take me out before I have the chance to prove my worth. I may have bluffed my way into this game, but he’s holding all the cards.
Alex trails behind me as I scurry from the ballroom. In the dimly-lit lobby lounge, I order a stomach-settling ginger ale and pepper him with questions ab
out his work, his hobbies, his family—anything to keep from thinking about my family just steps away.
All the while, I keep an eye on the entrance to the ballroom, hoping to see Van Horne and my mother leaving so that I can go back inside and continue working. But when there’s nothing left in my glass but a puckered maraschino cherry and a few cubes of ice, I realize it’s best if I go back to my room upstairs. At least there I can take out my laptop and document everything I’ve learned tonight.
I ask Alex to walk with me. A hopeful look blooms on his face, and I feel a twinge of guilt for misleading him into thinking he’ll be invited inside, but the coward in me wants someone by my side in case I run into anyone whose last name starts with Van and ends in Horne.
At my door, I pull my key card from my beaded clutch and turn to Alex. “I’m really not feeling very well. I’m going to type up my notes now, and if I get a second wind, I’ll come back downstairs.”
His expression falters, staring at me as if I’m an empty ice cream cone whose scoop has just fallen to the ground. “Sure. Umm . . . feel better.” Nice guys like Alex don’t push their luck, or take what isn’t offered.
Closing the door with a shaky sigh, I ignore the wall switch in favor of opening the drapes. The lights of San Francisco’s skyline light up the room like hundreds of twinkling votive candles set against an inky darkness.
I hang up my dress in the closet and pull on a fluffy white bathrobe emblazoned with the insignia of the hotel, only loosely tying the belt. My skin feels tight, stretched thin by the anxiety bubbling up inside of me. I am so tired of holding the disparate shreds of my life together and shielding Tristan from my lies. I’m not sure how much longer I can do it.
But losing my grip might just mean losing everything.
Tristan
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say to Kyle, my anti-wingman, watching as Reina slips into the crowd. I don’t want Reina to do recon work, or mingle with the crowd. I want her on my arm, by my side.
“Yes, I did. No one would blame you for wanting to get her in bed—so does every guy in this room.” I fight the urge to growl. “But even a fool can see that you’re half in love with her, and there aren’t many fools in this room, Tristan. You have to be careful.”
The argument that springs to mind never makes it out of my mouth. Kyle is a good friend as well as my colleague, and some things don’t need to be said out loud. But he’s wrong. I’m not in love with Reina St. James, half or any other ratio. I can’t be. We haven’t even had sex yet. We only met weeks ago. And I barely know anything about her that isn’t on her résumé.
Except that she lights up every room she walks into.
And she takes my breath away.
And she makes me so hard I can’t focus on anything but the interminable seconds ticking away until I’m finally inside of her.
That’s the pro side of the list. The cons are just as significant. There is a ten-year age gap between us. And Reina is my employee. A trainee, for God’s sake.
It’s hard to make a name for yourself when the three other men who’ve come you before have already left their mark. But as a Bettencourt, hiding in the shadows isn’t an option. And right now, I can clearly visualize two paths. As Tristan James Xavier Bettencourt IV, I can be a successful financier who exceeds already high expectations. Or I can be IVy, the sleazy screwup who leads with his dick and lets his family, and investors, down.
With this crowd, I am definitely the former. The governor of California spots me and proffers his hand, drawing me into a conversation with two senators and the CEO of a multinational energy company. Zuckerberg and I talk about Facebook’s latest earnings. Gates asks me to make a contribution to his foundation.
And it feels damn good. Like this is who I’m meant to be and where I belong.
Fuck IVy. I’ll be damned if my contribution to the Bettencourt legacy is to disgrace our name, corrupt our brand.
I have to face facts, Kyle is right. Reina is off-limits.
But off-limits doesn’t mean out of sight. I keep track of her as she works the room like a pro until . . . I don’t. Suddenly, Reina is nowhere to be seen. At last glance she was talking to Alex, an analyst just a few years out of the same training program Reina is in now, but I lost track of her at least half a dozen handshakes ago. Blatantly ignoring my current conversation, I scan the room yet again. They are both gone, and I don’t like it one bit.
Quit it. Off-limits, remember?
I take Kyle’s elbow to my ribs without flinching and attempt to refocus my attention on the man—boy, really—who just sold his app development company for half a billion dollars. From the looks of his skin, more acne than facial hair, I’m not sure if he’s old enough to legally drink from the glass in his hand. The last thing I want to do is to feign interest in this child’s harebrained investment schemes. There is only one place I want to be. One person I want to be with. Fuck off-limits.
I’ve spent the past two hours making a sizable dent in the list of prospective clients I came to meet. Polaris isn’t a one-man operation, and my fund won’t fail just because I delegate some of the glad-handing to the rest of my team.
“Excuse me.” I squeeze the boy wonder’s shoulder, grinning as if we’re old friends, and step away. Kyle can wrap things up with the tech geek, I need to check in with Reina. And so help me, if Alex has even touched her—
“Slow down there, son. Where’s the fire?”
Gerald Van Horne’s booming voice stops me in my tracks. “Gerry.” I extend my hand, forcing a smile onto my face. “Good to see you. I just had a sit-down with Wendy the other day.”
“Yes, I saw that.” He chuckles. “She always had a knack for digging in the dirt, that one.”
I concede the point. “Luckily there isn’t much for her to find.”
“Just wait, you’re young yet,” Gerald insists. “Not many of us in this business can stay clean for long.”
I’m not sure if he’s talking about personal scandals or shady dealings, but assume he probably means both. He weathered quite a scandal in his personal life years ago when he filed for divorce from his first wife. She hadn’t gone quietly, contesting their prenup and suing for half ownership of his company, full custody of their kids, and most of their accumulated real estate. In the end, his ex took the kids and over a hundred million in cash—but not before the two slung so much mud they were both covered in it. He’s since remarried, although I’ve only met his current wife in passing.
Wall Street society is an insular one, and they don’t take kindly to their secrets being exposed. Van Horne has been forced to testify before Congress, more than once, regarding suspicious investments at Bull Capital, and he’s been party to other questionable deals over the course of his career. But with a net worth north of a billion dollars, a wallet the size of Van Horne’s can buy a lot of forgiveness.
“You’re probably right, but I’m going to give it my best shot.”
He grunts. “I hear you’re doing well. Your father must be proud.”
“Thank you.”
“That fund of yours, you’ve posted some pretty impressive returns.”
“We’re pleased with how Polaris has fared in the current market. Our lock-up’s due to expire and we’re looking to grow our assets under management. It’s going well so far.”
“It’s an important time for you, then. Too many funds don’t make it past a year. And what’s this I hear about your father looking to get out of the business?”
I have an uncomfortable feeling that Van Horne knows much more about Polaris than he is letting on. Ditto my father’s plans for Bettencourt. I keep my cards close to my vest. “You’ll have to talk to him about that. But no one’s planning his retirement party yet, that’s for sure.”
“He’s a good man, your father. I’ve always enjoyed our friendly rivalry. But I’ll tell you one thing: they’re going to have to drag me out of my office in a hearse.”
This is probably the longest c
onversation I’ve ever had with Gerald, and I decide to redirect it. “How’s Bryce doing? Have you managed to get him off the ice and into your boardroom yet?” Van Horne’s son and I were teammates in boarding school and friends well before that. Against his father’s wishes, Bryce joined the NHL before finishing college.
Van Horne chuckles. “Not quite yet, although maybe you can convince him. His shoulder’s been acting up, so he’s coming back to New York to see a specialist after his next game.”
“Oh, sorry to hear that.” Bryce is notorious for his vicious body checks, and I know the toll it’s taken on him over the years.
“Don’t be. I’m hoping they’ll tell him his hockey career is over so he can actually do something useful with his life.”
Playing professional sports for a living is evidently not what Van Horne envisioned for his only son. “Well, I can’t imagine doing anything else, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss the ice. Have Bryce give me a call when he gets in town, I’d love to see him. ”
“Will do.” I watch as he stalks off toward his wife, a tall woman with pale blonde hair who reminds me of Reina.
Fuck. Reina. Where the hell is she? After enduring a dozen more handshakes and several conversations, I spot Alex at the south end of the crowded ballroom. Reina isn’t with him. “How’s it going?” I ask, feigning a cool I don’t feel at all.
“Hey, boss. Good, I was just talking to Jeff White over at Six Sigma . . .”
I force my hands into my pockets, listening as he recaps information I already know. “Great, great. And how about the rest of the team?” I make a show of looking around. “I touched base with Sam earlier. I see Claire with the Blackstone folks. But I’ve lost sight of everyone else.”
He blinks rapidly. “Jeff and Matt are around here somewhere. I walked Reina up to her room earlier. And—”