Penthouse Prince: A new York City Romance

by Tara Leigh

  I want to hang up. Throw out a dozen reasons why I don’t have time for her. Not then, not now, not next week. But what comes out instead is something else entirely. “Sure, mom. Give me a call when you’re back in town and we’ll do that.”

  Chapter 12

  @BettencourtBets: Will what happened in San Francisco stay in San Francisco? Maybe not. Stay tuned!

  Tristan

  I stare at the Bettencourt crest hanging above my bed, the one that sent Reina running the first night we met, wondering what the last few weeks would have been like if I elected to get us a room at the hotel where the charity event was held rather than coming back to my apartment. What would have happened once we came face-to-face in the conference room on Monday morning?

  Post-game speculation is a pointless exercise, one I rarely indulge in, but everything about my relationship with Reina feels precarious and open to interpretation.

  Our time on the road together, away from the office, away from friends and family obligations, is over. It passed in a blur of presentations, meetings, meals on the go with my team, and long, drawn-out lunches and dinners with clients and prospective clients.

  And sex. Lots and lots of sex. The kind of sex that would have made my horny, adolescent self cream in his pants . . . and then tilt his head in amazement at the variety of configurations two humans are capable of.

  After San Francisco, we spent every night together. We were discreet, and I don’t think anyone but Kyle noticed. Affairs on the road happen all the time. I’m pretty sure Claire and Sam were hooking up for most of the trip. Kyle met up with an ex in Phoenix. And the junior guys definitely had a few one-night-stands as we criss-crossed the country.

  Which is why I’m not going to waste time worrying about it.

  Returning to New York late last night, I spent today in the office, firming up the commitments we received on the road and catching up on everything I missed. But the markets were calm, and now I’m in my apartment.

  Waiting for Reina to arrive.

  Truthfully, I’m not even sure she’ll show up. She hasn’t reversed her opinion that what happened on the road shouldn’t follow us home. Hoping for the best, there is takeout from my favorite neighborhood restaurant in the kitchen, along with a waiter from their staff to make it look like I haven’t just ordered takeout for the first night we spend together that doesn’t involve furtively sneaking down the hall, ducking into each other’s hotel rooms, our fingers crossed that no one sees us.

  I’ve selected a Pinot Noir to go with our dinner, plus a Sauvignon Blanc in case Reina prefers white. And as I light the candles that were placed on my table by whomever decorated the apartment before I moved in, I can’t help but shake my head. I don’t do this. I don’t do cozy dinners at home. Not the kind with wine and candles and—Shit. I forgot the flowers.

  Of course, I’ve never dated a woman who refuses to be seen in public with me, either. There is nothing sleazy about Reina, or my feelings for her. It bugs me that going public with our relationship won’t be good for either one of us. A few years ago, maybe no one would have noticed. But my profile is higher now. There is the Money cover and accompanying article. And BettencourtBets is following—and reporting—my every move.

  But sneaking around isn’t the answer. The only thing that grows in the dark is mold.

  The doorbell rings before I can figure out how to convince Reina that something has to give, and soon. I open the door to find her in a hoodie and jeans, a baseball cap pulled low over her forehead. Clearly she’s taking the cloak-and-dagger aspect of our relationship seriously. “Reina? Is that you under there?” I bend down, peering beneath her brim.

  Her smile is the only part of her face I can see. “Let’s go Mets.”

  The M emblazoned in the fabric is bright yellow. “You’re wearing a University of Michigan hat.”

  “Oh. Whoops. I don’t know their slogan.”

  I sweep the hat off her head and draw Reina into my chest, kissing her as if it hasn’t been mere hours since the last time. As if I haven’t been fantasizing all day about everything I’m going to do to her mouth, her breasts, her deliciously tight pussy.

  Reina’s hands curve around my shoulders, her nails raking over the back of my neck as I gather her into my arms, her feet hovering a few inches off the ground. Our tongues slide against each other, thrusting and parrying as I bring her over the threshold and kick the door shut.

  Relaxing my grip, I bite softly on Reina’s lower lip, just hard enough to hear her groan. “Me neither.”

  Once her feet are back on the ground, Reina’s eyes sweep over the table, the wine, the food, even the server hovering near the kitchen. “Um . . .”

  “You told me we couldn’t be seen in public. But you didn’t say we couldn’t have a decent date.”

  “So, we’re dating now?”

  “If you want to be two people just fucking each other as frequently as possible, fine.” I gesture toward the table. “But at least sit down, have a glass of wine, and enjoy your dinner.”

  A fire in her eyes sparks, catches flame. “Save the fucking for after dessert?”

  I hand her a glass, lightly clinking its rim with my own. “The fucking is dessert.”

  Reina

  Tristan’s voice pools in my ear like warm honey. Dessert has never sounded so good.

  Still, I hesitate. I can do dessert. I can probably do dessert all night, every night, for as long as I live. But the rest of it?

  My eyes sweep over my surroundings—not just the beautifully set table and delicious-smelling food, but the twelve-foot ceilings and walls hung with original art. Even Tristan’s jeans probably cost more than the most extravagant purchase I’ve ever made (Hervé Léger dress notwithstanding). What the hell am I doing here, in his luxurious penthouse?

  I shouldn’t have come. What happened in San Francisco . . . and San Diego, Los Angeles, Phoenix, Austin, Nashville, Portland, Palm Beach, and Salt Lake City . . . should stay there.

  Yet, here I am. Back in Manhattan. Back in Tristan’s apartment.

  And completely out of my league.

  As tall as the ceilings are, they are pressing down on my head. All of this is as unfamiliar to me as mother-daughter spa days or playing hooky from school. For as long as I can remember, the only person I could count on is me. My parents, all three of them, have never really been there. Not physically, not emotionally. If there was something I wanted— I planned, I worked, I saved, I strategized . . . and I got it my own damn self.

  I fumble for something to say, some sentence that will lead to a quick exit with no hard feelings, until I make the mistake of lifting my eyes to Tristan’s, drinking in the look on his face. It’s an expression I’ve seen flashes of before. Like he wants to please me. Treat me. Surprise me.

  And, goddammit, that look is so seductive it should be banned in all fifty states. Because it’s working. I am being seduced. By it, by him, by all of it. I am falling. Hard. For Tristan James Xavier Bettencourt. The fucking fourth.

  The first night we met, he was just a guy. An irresistibly gorgeous guy with two initials in place of a name. Then at the office, he was a brilliant mentor, much more focused and driven than I would have expected anyone who didn’t actually need to work could be. And while we were away, he proved to be an exciting and passionate lover. There is no part of me he hasn’t touched, or kissed.

  And now, tonight, in his home, the dynamic between Tristan and I shifts once again. This isn’t flirty banter with a sexy stranger. This isn’t an interview. This isn’t a clandestine romp. This is a date.

  A date with a man who orders a waiter to go with his takeout.

  I tear my gaze away from Tristan’s, wondering if it’s possible to get vertigo from staring into a pair of eyes as deep and fathomless as the sea. I am on Tristan’s turf tonight. An invited guest who feels like a trespasser.

  I wish I belonged here, in this place ruled by legacies and family traditions rather than secrets and shadows.
Here, no one denies your paternity. Your last name is celebrated.

  And it shows. I can see it in the way Tristan speaks about his father, and his passion for Bettencourt and his employees. Tristan has a generous heart. There might even be room for me.

  I gulp at the wine, choke. Suddenly this isn’t a game. The sneaking around, the wealthy heartthrob with the name I can’t even say in one breath. The family ties that start with French nobility and end with Wall Street royalty. Here, the barriers to entry are too high, at least for someone like me—someone whose biological father would lay a hand on the Bible and deny any knowledge of my existence rather than allow the mere fact of my birth to tarnish his reputation.

  I open my mouth, intending to spill all of the ugly truths clogging my throat.

  And then I catch sight of my reflection in the cobalt mirror of Tristan’s eyes. The woman he thinks I am. The woman I want to be. She is composed and mature, and not flustered in the least by tonight. By a date. This woman goes on dates all the time, is used to men doing nice things for her, treating her as if she’s the most important person in their life. She would sip politely at her wine, fold the napkin in her lap, and take the evening in stride.

  Surely I can be her for at least a few hours. If the scales of justice are at all even, I’ve earned it.

  I close my mouth, trot out my best impression of a Mona Lisa smile, and sit. “This is nice. Thank you.” The past couple of weeks have been a collection of stolen moments. Maybe what I really need is a whole night, or possibly two. For one weekend I can dance and play and stomp on Tristan’s grass that looks a hell of a lot greener than my own.

  It can’t be as lush and well-tended as it appears, right? Maybe it will turn out to be like the kind they have in California and Arizona. Dead, brown grass sprayed with green paint because of the drought. Nothing but an illusion.

  Tristan sits down across from me, the server hastening to dole salad onto our plates.

  “So, what are we having?”

  “Well, I’m having steak. But I’ve never seen you eat red meat so I ordered you the striped bass. You had it twice while we were away, I thought it was a safe choice.”

  I nod, feeling like a sap for my stinging eyes. Tristan notices what I eat? The only thing guys ever seem to notice about me is my cleavage. “Thanks,” I say. “But you didn’t need to make such an effort.” I manage to close my mouth before the words for me escape. But they hang in the air anyway, an unsightly cobweb suspended between us.

  “I don’t think of it like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “It’s not an effort if it’s something I want to do. I like doing things for you, watching your eyes widen and then go all soft.” Tristan stabs a piece of lettuce, puts it in his mouth and leans back in his chair. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you that you’re worth making an effort for?”

  I fight the urge to look around. Is there some sort of script Tristan is reading from—a big placard with instructions on what to say to make a girl fall for him?

  I came to his place tonight, red lace bra, g-string, even thigh highs and garters on beneath my sweatshirt, jeans, and worn Converse sneakers. I expected to be naked by now. Instead I’m desperately trying to choke down mesclun greens and a conversation so poignant it should come with a box of tissues.

  I put down my fork, play with the edge of my napkin. “Actually, no. No one ever has, until tonight. Until you.”

  Tristan studies me from across the table. My mask is down, the protective armor I forged from necessity lying chipped and crumpled at my feet. Useless. I have nothing to protect me, and nowhere to hide. I’m as exposed and vulnerable as I’ve ever been. Only the weight of Tristan’s gaze holds me in place, keeps me from jumping up and running fast and far.

  Slowly, one corner of his mouth curves upward a few degrees. A smile, but a sad one. “That’s a damn shame.”

  Tristan is right. It is a shame.

  Regret hardens in my bones like cement. Regret that I shared my body casually, gave it away to men who didn’t treat me with the kind of reverence Tristan has exhibited since our very first kiss. He doesn’t just have sex with my body. He devours all of me. And afterwards, he holds me like he’ll never let go.

  “I guess it is. I never thought of it like that.”

  The way Tristan looks at me, I can almost imagine I’m some gift he’s taking his time opening. Savoring the process of not knowing, only guessing a little before unwrapping it, bit by bit, piece by piece. Tristan has no idea that I’m actually a mistake, some drunken hookup between an egg and sperm that took root and grew into a living, breathing person. Reina St. James. The girl with a regal sounding name masking a sordid past.

  “That’s a shame too.”

  The night I lost my virginity, I felt relieved. Like, phew, glad that’s done. If only I’d known this man was in my future, waiting for me. I wish Tristan was my first. No—I wish he was my only.

  Eyeing Tristan as he sips at his wine, I can feel the confidence that envelopes him. The sureness of his path, his future. As our salad plates are cleared, I thank the one lucky star in my universe that somehow made Tristan want me, pursue me. The tips of my ears feel hot, raw emotion rising to the surface of my skin.

  “Were you always like this?” I ask.

  “Like what?”

  “So sure of yourself. Is it a by-product of growing up a Bettencourt, or was there some class you took at school?”

  “You mean, during my boarding school brat phase?”

  I grin. “Maybe, yeah.”

  He puts his glass down, leans back in his chair. “You know, one of the best things about being your boss is that I can look into your background without being accused of stalking.”

  The hair on the back of my neck stands up, my smile fading. I don’t need anyone looking into my background, least of all Tristan. Through well-practiced restraint, my expression remains neutral. “Is that so?”

  “Yes. And I discovered that you went to a school every bit as bratty—your word, not mine—as I did.”

  I let out a breath. Basic résumé stuff. No problem, as long as he doesn’t dive too deep. “True. But my dad taught at the school, it’s different.”

  “Different how? Same caliber, same classes, same cafeteria food.”

  Do I want to do this? No, not really. Any conversation about my upbringing will reveal the gaping divide between us. But I plunge in anyway.

  “Maybe you never felt it, but there’s a caste system at places that cost upwards of sixty thousand dollars a year just to walk through the front door. Kids like you, whose parents foot the entire bill, are at the top. You have the best clothes, go on the most exciting vacations, have the strongest connections to get into college—legacies, a library with your last name on it, whatever.

  “The next rung down is the scholarship kids. Academic or athletic, they’re there because the school wanted them. They’re either the smartest in their class or the ones who take your team to the championship.” I tuck a wayward lock of hair behind my ear, then sit on my hands to stop fidgeting. “And at the very bottom are kids like me.

  “I wasn’t recruited. No one was paying my tuition. I was only there because my father worked for the school. Kids like me, we had to prove ourselves every day. Otherwise we’re just taking up space that could have gone to someone who actually deserved it.” I close my mouth, almost shocked that I’ve let so many words slip out, and pick up my fork, determined to fill it so full of fish I won’t be able to talk.

  “Did you?”

  The fork stops halfway to my face. “Did I what?”

  “Prove yourself.”

  Rather than answer, I take my bite, chewing slowly as I run through answers that won’t make him sorry he invited me over.

  But Tristan doesn’t wait for my response. “You did. Of course you did. And you’ve been doing it ever since, right? Boarding school, college, a job with Bettencourt. You said it yourself, you’ve made an art form of going after whate
ver everyone else wants.”

  My mouth goes dry. What he said is true. But it makes me sound conniving rather than ambitious.

  Tristan gets up and pulls out the chair closest to me, sits. “Is that what this is? What I am? Are you here with me tonight because of some kind of competitive streak?”

  Chapter 13

  @BettencourtBets: Wall Street’s Golden Rule: He who has the gold, gets the girl.

  Tristan

  My voice sounds sharp, even to my own ears. How is it that Reina isn’t my girlfriend and yet I’m waiting for her answer as if she’s my everything? That tweet about escaping from my father’s shadow is closer to the truth than I’m willing to admit. Am I falling for a woman who will turn as cold and sharp as the diamond she’s set her sights on? Is Reina like Elise, willing to do anything to become a hedge fund heiress? Is she just another Claudia in disguise—a gorgeous, sexy-as-hell disguise?

  If Reina has any ulterior motives at all, I need to know. Now. Because our date isn’t going quite the way I planned. There’s a depth to Reina that I didn’t expect, and it’s about time I owned up to the truth—I want more from her than just her body, exquisite as it is. Nearly ten years younger than me, and fresh out of college, Reina should be about as deep as a puddle. Instead I find myself staring into a wishing well, taunted by the pennies glinting from the bottom. They might be just an arm’s length away, or entirely unreachable.

  Silence stretches out as Reina puts down her fork, turns to face me. “Tristan, if I tell you that I know what we are, or what this is, it would be a lie. I don’t have a damn clue.” Her eyes are wide and green, fringed with lashes so long they brush my cheeks when we kiss. They search mine now, looking for . . . something.

  “I’m not here because you’re one of Manhattan’s most eligible bachelors. And I don’t care about the balance in your bank account. I’m here because . . . I couldn’t not be. And I’m scared.” She laughs suddenly, running her fingers through her hair and ruffling it. “Terrified, actually. You’re not a part of my plan. You know—land a great job, kick ass, conquer Wall Street. In fact, you could destroy my plan.