by Tara Leigh
I responded cautiously. “Okay.”
“I don’t know if there’s some generally accepted standard for valuing women, but if there is, you would blow away every conceivable benchmark.”
A flush rises up my cheeks and I look away. “Reina,” Tristan says. “Reina, look at me.”
He waits until I do before continuing. “Your worth is immeasurable. Your curves could make an hourglass jealous. Your face puts Helen of Troy to shame. And your mind gives Michael Lewis a run for his money. Whatever happens with us, don’t let anyone relegate you to the corners of their life. Do you understand? You deserve to be center stage, top billing. Nothing less. Promise me.”
A shiver runs through me as I search for my voice. Eventually I manage to get out a quiet, “I promise.”
Tristan gives a last, small squeeze, and relaxes his grip enough that I can grab for the napkin strewn over my lap to dab at my misty eyes before quickly excusing myself to the ladies’ room.
I stagger from the table, Tristan’s affirming words reverberating in my mind. As soon as I return to my crappy apartment, I am going to break out my glitter pens and frame every compliment he just gave me. Not that I’ll forget the best collection of sentences I’ve ever heard, or Tristan’s throaty drawl as he said them. But I want to see them too, in full glittery glory.
They’re important. And Tristan makes me feel important.
In the ladies’ room, I splash at my stinging eyes with water. It’s finally sinking in—after a lifetime spent mostly alone and so, so lonely, I’ve finally found the person, my person, who lifts me up rather than pushes me away. A man who sees me, desires me, values me.
Tristan is worth the risk to my career, worth the potentially damning consequences. Because whatever they are, I can handle them. It doesn’t negate my intelligence or work ethic. This is Wall Street, for god’s sake. A place where success is quantified in dollars and cents, profit and loss. As long as my investments make money, no one can say a damn thing about my love life.
Love. Oh my God. I am absolutely falling in love with Tristan.
It’s crazy. Crazy good. I never expected to feel this way about anyone, but I can’t help it. Tristan is almost too good to be true.
A frisson of doubt invades my euphoric haze, as unwelcome and unexpected as the bite of a splinter from a smooth piece of wood. But once it’s there I can’t ignore it. What if Tristan really is too good to be true?
That person he spoke so highly of back at the table—she isn’t me.
Not really.
Tristan’s only knows the carefully curated version I’ve allowed him to see. A woman with a Mona Lisa smile and no baggage. Tristan still doesn’t know me. I still haven’t let him in, not completely. And until I’m honest with him, I’m just an imposter.
I blow my nose, dry my face, straighten my spine. It’s time to tell Tristan exactly who Reina St. James really is. I wasn’t brave enough before, but I am now.
And that’s the kind of woman Tristan deserves.
If he still wants me, the real me, I am his. Consequences be damned.
He’s worth every risk.
He’s worth everything.
Tristan
If I thought Reina’s eyes were leaking anything other than happy tears, I would have followed her. But I need a few minutes to pull myself together, too. Our conversation has left me reeling.
Normally, I consider myself a roll-with-the-punches kind of guy. It takes a lot to shock me, or make me lose my temper. Reina’s question did both. What fuckwad convinced her that she’s worthless? I want to know his name. I want to know where he lives. Because I want to shove his balls down his throat, and feed his dick to the pigeons hungrily eyeing our food from their perch on the awning above. And that’s just for starters.
Our server clears our plates, and I manage a distracted nod when she asks whether we’d like another round.
Lost in my thoughts, I don’t notice the woman who appears at my side until she says my name. My stomach lurches at the sound of her voice.
“What a treat running into you,” Elise enthuses, planting a damp kiss at the edge of my lips and sliding into Reina’s vacant seat. “It’s been forever.”
Forever hasn’t lasted long enough. “You’re in New York.”
“Not for long.” She extends her hand, the enormous rock on her finger casting shards of light onto the tablecloth. “We flew in for the Man Ray auction at Christie’s. We’ll be returning to Europe next week.”
“Is your child with you?”
Elise frowns. “Of course not. He’s in Paris, with his father.”
So she had a boy.
Elise’s interest in me had been twofold: my cash and my connections. A baby was just the cheese in her trap. If not for divine intervention, or at least a twist of fate, I would be raising a son right now.
Beneath the table, my leg is bouncing up and down. Elise represents a time in my life when I took people at face value. But I’ve learned my lesson.
Never again will I fall for a woman who lies so often, so easily, and with so little remorse.
Reina
Feeling terrified but determined, I pick my way through the crowded restaurant, eager to finally come clean to Tristan. But when I get within sight of our table, he isn’t alone. In my seat is an elegant woman, maybe late twenties, thirty at the most. Polished. Sophisticated. Wearing a pale pink Chanel suit, a coordinating bag at her side, and a diamond the size of a taxi on her left hand. A genuine Park Avenue Princess—the kind of woman Tristan belongs with. They look good together, like they match. Perfectly.
Suddenly his words don’t seem so affirming. Maybe I’m just a rebound. Maybe Tristan was just telling me what he thinks I want to hear, like I’m a potential investor he’s trying to woo.
They have history, I can tell. I look closer, at the woman’s haughty posture, her pursed lips. And then back at Tristan again. His face is flushed, and he’s pushed his chair back from the table, as far as it can go without bumping into the person behind him.
Whatever happened between them, it didn’t end well.
I debate staying back for a little longer, giving them time to catch up. But then I see a look of disgust cross Tristan’s face, an expression so naked, so obvious, I don’t hesitate to join his side.
“What the hell took you so long?” he growls, pulling me into his lap.
The woman’s eyes narrow as she studies me through a thin veil of disdain. Again, I regret my outfit. My hoodie-wearing days are over, I decide. At least if Tristan and I are going to be a thing. I might be ten years his junior, but the least I can do is look like a sophisticated twenty-something.
“Elise, this is my girlfriend, Reina St. James.” Tristan introduces us, his arms firmly linked around my waist.
My girlfriend. I could get used to that.
Elise doesn’t address me directly. “My goodness, Tristan, I didn’t realize you had taken to swimming in the kiddie pool.”
My smile falters. So much for taking a few minutes to bask in my newly assigned title. Girlfriend. Tristan’s girlfriend.
“You think so?” Tristan bares his teeth. “Maybe you’re right. You look so much older than Reina, no one would ever guess you’re only a few years apart.”
I blanch. Whoa. Who knew Tristan could fight, mean-girl style?
Elise’s jaw gapes open, taken aback by Tristan’s harsh smackdown, but he still isn’t finished. “Though, as a mother, you might consider spending some time in the shallow end yourself.” I almost feel bad for her when he adds, “Good-bye, Elise. I’d like to enjoy the rest of my day with a woman who doesn’t make me question the future of the human race.”
And then he kisses me. In front of Elise. In front of everyone at the tables surrounding us. In full view of anyone walking by. A possessive, ownership-marking statement that makes my toes curl, even inside my tattered Converse.
There is a sharp scraping noise as Elise pushes back from the table and stalks off, but the
re is no clap of thunder, no downpour of hail. No swarm of locusts. The world remains firmly on its axis. Spinning and spinning.
We pull away slowly, just as our waiter comes bounding up with two fresh Bloody Marys. He sets them on the table and leaves.
“Meow. You never told me you could hang with the big cats. Jeez, remind me to never get in a whose-claws-are-sharper contest with you.” I slide off Tristan’s lap and reclaim my own seat. “So, who was that?”
He sighs, lifting his glass. “Take your pick. Liar. Social climber. Someone who doesn’t know the first thing about the meaning of family.”
Chapter 15
@BettencourtBets: Rumor: IVy’s odds of success just got longer. Is a blood-thirsty BULL making a play for Bettencourt?
Tristan
There’s an edge to my voice as I recount my history with Elise, a cinderblock of tension between my shoulder blades. Emotions comes rushing back—the terror and exhilaration of impending fatherhood, the nervous anxiety of planning a proposal. And then the shame and anger, sadness and relief that had nearly swallowed me whole when I discovered I’d been taken for a fool.
Reina remains mostly quiet, sipping her drink slowly as I vent. When there is nothing left to say, we head back to my apartment. And this time, there is no resistance when I take her hand, no questions about being seen. Holding Reina’s hand isn’t enough, though. Not nearly enough. I want to devour her. Lose myself in her body, her embrace.
Maybe even find myself.
I crave the honesty of sex, the authenticity of speaking with my body rather than words.
“Is it wrong that the only place I want to be right now is inside of you?” I ask, my voice a gritty whisper as we wait for the elevator.
She answers quietly, running the crown of her head along the underside of my chin in a caress. Equal parts sweet and sexy. “On that, our interest are completely aligned.”
It’s only out of respect to the octogenarian and her bedraggled poodle that I don’t push the emergency stop button and take Reina right there, in the elevator. But when we get into my apartment, I pause in the entryway after de-activating the alarm with my own palm. I take Reina’s hand and set it on the screen. “What are you doing?” she breathes.
The device gives three short, high-pitched chirps. “I like having you here, with me. I’m giving you a key, and I want you to use it.”
“You can’t open the door for me?”
“I can. But this week is going to be hectic. If you get out of the office before I do, I wouldn’t mind coming home to find you,” I dip my head, nuzzling the skin tucked behind her ear, “waiting for me. In bed. Naked.”
Reina blinks at me, like she doesn’t know what to say. It’s not an acknowledgement. Not an agreement. But it’s enough for now. We leave a trail of clothes from the front door to the bathroom. After my exchange with Elise, I feel dirty.
I keep the overhead lights dim, welcome after the bright day outside, and adjust the water temperature with a quick flick of my wrist. I get in first, pulling Reina in after me. She hasn’t commented on the way I introduced her earlier, as my girlfriend, and I don’t bring it up again. If I could, I’d brand Reina with a mark of ownership. Irrevocable proof that she’s mine.
I want to drown myself in lust. It’s simple and straightforward, a cleansing lake that overpowers anger, disgust, and uncertainty.
Reina’s skin glistens from the wet spray, her tumble of blonde hair darkening to a molten bronze. Tiny beads cling to the tips of her eyelashes and collect in the shallow of her navel. Fat droplets rush down the slope of her breasts and fall from the firm points of her nipples.
She’s like a nymph. A wet, wanton water fairy.
With a groan, I pull her slippery body her against mine. Reina is too goddamn sexy for words. Buttoned up and all business one minute, cute and casual the next. Right now, naked and open, there is no artifice. Only need.
Reina’s spine arches as her lips dance across mine, a teasing brush that leaves me wanting more. I tug at her bottom lip, running my tongue along her teeth, tasting the mix of Reina’s natural sweetness and the lingering spiciness of her Bloody Mary. She is sunshine and moonlight, temptress and innocent.
I drink in her sweet sighs, each one making me harder. Her hands edge between us, sending ripples of pleasure beneath my skin as they slide down my abdomen. No. Not yet.
I spin Reina around within the circle of my arms, holding her tight against me. “Spread your legs,” I command, adjusting the jets on the opposite wall to spray her breasts and sex with insistent, unrelenting pressure.
Reina obeys, her nipples puckering in pleasure as I reach between her thighs, penetrating her with the fingers of one hand while I aim one of the wall jets to hit her clit.
“Please, I can’t, I want—”
“Sssh.” I whisper, holding her in place. “I’ve got you.”
Her needy howls echo within the marble enclosure as she bucks against me. “It’s too much,” she cries, shuddering in my arms.
I move my thumb over her clit, blocking the spray of water, and she sags against me on flaccid legs. “Do you trust me?” I ask softly, my mouth hovering just over the shell of her ear.
“Yes,” she answers, without hesitation.
“Good.” I press a kiss to her temple, my fingers curling inside her, stroking the spot I know drives her wild. After a few minutes, her body tenses, her muscles trembling. And then I take away the shield of my thumb.
Reina opens her mouth and screams as the full force of water pounds against her most intimate, vulnerable place. I feel the orgasm break over her. She draws tight as a bow, her pussy clenching around my fingers until she collapses against me, completely boneless, a mass of quivering nerves and muscles.
I turn her in my arms, lifting her up and holding her against the wall, sliding inside her as she wraps her legs around my hips.
Her eyes meet mine, rich evergreen wreaths encircling the bottomless black lagoons of her blown pupils. I can see myself reflected in her gaze. My jaw clenched, my attention focused. A half-smile tugs the corners of my mouth upward, creases of affection spreading across my skin.
I like what I see.
Monday comes quickly. I rise at five and am in a cab on my way to the office half an hour later. There is just one week left before Polaris opens to new investors and we need to lock down all the details for a smooth transfer of capital.
By the time of our seven a.m. morning call, Reina is across the table from me, looking poised and professional and nothing like the woman who was in my shower yesterday, screaming out my name. This Reina is cool and impassive, barely raising an eyebrow in greeting before flipping open her legal pad and jotting down notes.
After we wrap up, Kyle and I are discussing a few thorny asset conversion details when I notice my father heading toward me.
We work in the same building but on different floors, and these days he spends much of his time out of the office checking on various international outposts and our most important clients. From my very first day at Bettencourt, he made it clear that I would have as much autonomy as I earned. With each triumph, no matter how small, he backed further away.
We generally manage to grab dinner together, just the two of us, once a month, although I reach out to him for his opinion on work-related things more often. His instincts are sharper than anyone else I know, and he has eyes and ears all over the Street. Of course I want to chart my own path, but I’m not stupid enough to discount his experience. When I need his counsel, I ask. And when it’s offered, I listen.
I can’t remember the last time he sought me out before the start of the trading day.
“I’m hearing rumblings. Several of the commitments you secured out west are pulling out.” Looking at my father is almost like seeing myself thirty years in the future. I have my mother’s lips and dimple. But I share the same strong nose and square chin as my father. The same dark hair and eyes that can’t decide whether they’re blue or gray. Usual
ly his crinkle at the corners when we speak, glimmers of pride shining bright. Not today.
I don’t need to ask how he knows. He always knows. “Who?”
He rattles off a few names. Big ones. Fuck me. “Do you know their reasons?”
“That’s not important,” he says. “What matters is where they’re going.”
“They’re all going to the same shop?” That isn’t a coincidence, that’s sabotage. And there are only a few firms big enough to secure that kind of commitment from just a handful of investors.
He nods, his eyes flicking toward Reina, sitting at her desk just a few feet away. “Bull Capital.”
The name takes me by surprise. “Van Horne? Are you sure? I just ran into him in San Francisco.” And then I recall, word for word, our conversation in the middle of the ballroom. He’d shown a little too much interest in Polaris, and Bettencourt, for my liking. But I didn’t think much about it, not then and not since.
“Yeah. I’m sure.”
I’ve been too wrapped up in Reina to see what’s right in front of me.
I turn to Kyle. “Do you have any contacts over there?”
“I’m on it.”
My father speaks up again. “You can fact-check, but your time will be better spent on defense than investigation. It’s true, they’re coming for us.”
“Bull Capital is coming for Polaris?” Kyle sputters.
You could fry an egg on the back of my neck. “No. Not Polaris.” I look at my father for confirmation. “Van Horne’s gunning for Bettencourt. All of it.”
He nods. “Yes. He knows I’m looking to retire soon, and if you make a success of this fund he’ll never get another chance at us. Basically, Gerry thinks we’re undervalued and he can get us cheap, but only if we implode. You’ve been getting a lot of press lately, Tristan. If Polaris fails, Bettencourt looks weak.”