by Tara Leigh
I feel like a teddy bear ripped down the middle, my belly a riot of torn stitches and exposed stuffing. Meeting Bryce might spell the end of my time with Tristan. Which has to happen, I know. I just didn’t expect it to happen so soon.
But . . . he is my brother. Half or not, isn’t it worth the risk?
After my mother married Van Horne, I spent every free minute for weeks, maybe months, studying the faces of my siblings in any magazine that covered the wedding. My stomach churned with jealousy as I stared at Wendy—Gwendolyn back then—Bryce, and Celeste. I hated them because my mother chose them over me.
I hated them even as I ached to know them.
A dagger of fear rakes its sharpened tip along my jugular. What if Bryce recognizes me? It’s not so farfetched. After all, his sister did. And if Bryce does, it’s game over for me. I still haven’t told Tristan the truth, that my parents are very much alive. That, at this very moment, one of them is plotting to steal his family’s legacy.
And that it’s all my fault. I’m the reason for Bull Capital’s attack.
I know what Tristan will think of me. I know, because he told me.
Liar. Social climber. Someone who doesn’t know the first thing about the meaning of family.
Lies delivered with a smile are still lies. They just go down more easily, like a fly smothered in honey. All you taste is the honey, but you’re still swallowing a fly.
Social climbing, guilty as charged. I’m an illegitimate bastard sleeping with Wall Street royalty.
And family—that’s a laugh. What the hell do I know about family? Only how to break it.
If not for Elise’s surprise arrival, I would have steeled myself with that second Bloody Mary and spilled all my secrets. And I’d probably be home right now, crying at my own pity party.
Because I’m really not ready for us to end yet. None of Tristan’s new guy shine has rubbed off. His side of the lawn is still every bit as lush and green as it appears.
I shouldn’t stay. But I can’t go. I’m weighed down by the ultimate albatross. Love.
At Cielo, we head straight for the curving staircase that dominates the main dining space. It’s guarded by two behemoths wearing three-piece suits and molded earpieces, a black velvet rope hanging between them. One look at Tristan and the all-access pass he wears like a shadow and they unclasp the rope, stepping aside with military precision.
This is my last chance.
My last chance to take Tristan aside, to tell him that I’m Van Horne’s secret daughter before someone else does it for me. It’s not that I think he’ll hold it against me. He might not even care. But he will care, a lot, that I lied about it. About almost everything.
And there’s his family to consider, too. Tristan is the prodigal son of a banking dynasty. Growing up Bettencourt is all about image and responsibility and legacies passed from one generation to the next. What if Tristan’s father isn’t keen on his only son dating Van Horne’s bastard, especially in the midst of Bull Capital’s attempted takeover?
Halfway up the stairs, I trip. And in that brief second, there is something that matters more than my DNA.
My pride.
I give a little screech, throwing my arms out for both railings like a cat destined for the bath. But I don’t fall. Tristan catches me, spinning me around and holding me to his chest, my feet dangling several inches above the stairs. “Making an entrance?”
“Apparently so. Sorry about that.”
Tristan is in no hurry to put me down. “Highlight of my night, so far.”
“Really? I’m sure I can top that.” My eyes flutter shut as I close the few remaining inches between us. Our first public outing went completely unnoticed. Maybe Tristan is right: As scandals go, we’re a bust. Might as well go for broke.
The kiss lasts just long enough to send tingles from the top of my spine to the toes I scrunched into a pair of Louboutins scored from my favorite consignment store. With a soft sigh, I slide down Tristan’s length until I’m standing on my own two feet again. Buoyed by the overheated oxygen racing though my bloodstream, the remaining stairs could be made of marshmallows.
And then we’re at the top, in another room that looks nothing the one below. Dimly lit, this is a multi-tiered space with banquettes and standalone tables surrounding a DJ booth and dance floor. It’s only ten. The DJ is spinning sexy, slow tempo songs, no one ready to dance just yet.
A tall, sandy haired man pops up. “X-Man!” he yells.
I turn to Tristan. “X-Man?”
He grins. “Locker room nickname, just wait till you hear Bryce’s.”
Bry, Bree? Those are probably too tame for guys that get off on slamming each other into steel reinforced boards. I tag along after Tristan.
“Horny!” he yells as we get closer.
I nearly choke. Of course. The two meet in a chest bump that includes aggressive, one-handed back thumping.
I catch Bryce’s wince as our eyes meet over Tristan’s shoulder, but it’s gone in an instant, replaced with an unabashed head-to-toe appraisal of yours truly. If Bryce wasn’t my brother, he’d take my breath away. He is slightly taller than Tristan, at least six foot three, maybe six four. His hair is shaggy, easily long enough to escape from his hockey helmet in a sweaty fringe. The button-down shirt he’s wearing barely stretches over his broad shoulders, and if I had to guess, the one that Tristan just thwacked isn’t feeling so good right now.
“It’s about time you came back to Gotham.” A grin stretches across Tristan’s face, all of today’s tension dissolving like smoke in the wind.
“I wish I didn’t need to, but seeing you almost makes it worthwhile.” Bryce glances my way again. “And who’s this?”
Tristan gathers me close to his side, hooking his arm around my waist. “This is Reina St. James.”
Now it’s my turn to wince. Does Bryce know his stepmother’s last name was St. James before it became Van Horne? I extend my hand. “Just Reina, please.”
“Nice to meet you, Just Reina.”
Bryce’s hand dwarfs mine, and I’m grateful he doesn’t crush it. “Come sit with us.” He rattles off a bunch of names, gesturing at the other people surrounding him. Decanters of alcohol and mixers are scattered on the tabletop, along with several ice buckets strategically placed within reach. A waitress appears at my side and I ask for a glass of sparkling water.
Bryce laughs. “What kind of girl are you dating, X?”
I bristle. “The kind that might have to go back to the office because—”
Tristan interrupts. “You can take the night off, Reina. Come on. I want you to have fun. No shop talk tonight.”
I close my mouth. Reading between the lines, it’s clear that Tristan doesn’t want to involve Bryce in his fight against Bull Capital. Minutes later, I’m holding a flute of champagne as the waitress goes off in search of a suitably aged scotch for Tristan. In the back of my mind, I know I should sip it slowly. But I’m nervous, and I already have my hackles up. The first glass goes down fast, and when the waitress comes back with Tristan’s drink, she refills my empty.
While they talk, I enjoy the view—and I don’t mean Cielo. Bryce and Tristan may come from similar backgrounds, but they are as different as St. Barts and St. Moritz. Both expensive, exclusive, and centuries-old destinations for the uber-wealthy and ultra-fabulous. But one requires fur-lined parkas and skis to brave majestic peaks, the other practically demands skinny-dipping in translucent aquamarine waters. Tristan is smooth and sleek, still water that runs deep. Bryce, I can already tell, is hot-headed and brash.
“So what are you doing here? Your dad said something about your shoulder?”
“Yeah, I was hoping I didn’t need surgery but apparently you can only take cortisone shots and painkillers chased by vodka for so long before your kidneys cry uncle. I’m seeing a specialist tomorrow.” An emaciated blonde curves a possessive hand around Bryce’s solid thigh, eyeing me as if I’m a threat. Apparently accustomed to being fondled
by beautiful women, Bryce doesn’t bat an eye. “How about you? I can’t believe you’re following in your old man’s footsteps. Doing well, I hear.”
“Who’d you hear that from? I know you’re not reading any of the industry rags.”
Bryce chuckles, downing the remaining contents of his glass and reaching for the decanter in front of him. And again I catch his quick wince. “My father, actually. I think he wishes you’d been born a Van Horne. Or at least that he has a kid interested in getting into the business.”
Oh, but he does. A cough explodes from my diaphragm, and I swallow the rest of what’s in my glass. Tristan gives me a sharp glance, probably surprised that I’ve polished off two glasses in two minutes, but, gentleman that he is, pours me another.
This one I’ll sip slowly. Really. I mean, it isn’t every day I’m face-to-face with my only brother. The one who doesn’t know I exist.
“Are you really dead set against working on Wall Street? You’re not in your twenties anymore. Even with surgery, how much longer do you want to beat on your shoulder?”
Bryce sighs. “I’m sure I’ll get kicked off the ice eventually, maybe even soon, but I just can’t see being tied to a desk all day. What do you do for fun? How do you let loose?”
Tristan laughs, shakes his head. “Believe it or not, working on Wall Street can be just as much of an adrenaline rush as hockey. The ups and downs of the market, the strategizing. It’s not exactly fun, but it’s exciting, and I love what I do.”
“So do I,” Bryce responds.
Their eyes meet and hold, years of friendship and shared history passing between them in one glance. And then Bryce breaks their gaze, turns my way. “You know, you look really familiar.”
Fuck.
Walking into Cielo, I was prepared for Bryce to notice my resemblance to my mother, but I grew more comfortable with each minute that passed. Now, after two and a half glasses of champagne, his offhand comment feels like being sideswiped by a semi.
“Hmmm. Yeah, I get that all the time. Must have a common face.” Then I polish off glass three.
Tristan raises his eyebrows. “You are many things, Reina, but common isn’t one of them.”
The compliment startles me, catches me off guard even as I’m angling my body away from Bryce’s narrowed eyes. I want to enjoy it. Bask in it, even. But I can’t because I’m so rattled by the scrutiny.
“I caught your interview with Wendy,” Bryce says, changing the subject.
“Yeah? What did you think of it?”
Noticing my empty glass, Tristan pours me another. This one I’ll sip, slowly. Fourth time’s the charm, right?
“I think my sister’s a real ball-buster.”
Tristan inclines his head, a smile tugging at his lips. “Always has been.”
“True.” Bryce lifts his glass, forcing Tristan to do the same. Why not? I lift mine too. God, I love champagne. But why are the glasses so damned tiny? I mean, just one sip and the flute is half empty again. “Wendy’s been even worse lately. It hasn’t hit the press yet, but she’s going through a pretty nasty divorce.”
It’s a clue, a tiny window into their lives, and I drink it in as greedily as I’m consuming this champagne. It could be why Wendy came at me so hard in Atlanta. I’m a reminder that some men stray, regardless of their vows.
Tristan grunts. “Sorry to hear that.”
“Me too. I actually liked the guy.”
I stay very still, hoping to learn more, but they move on to people I don’t know, places I’ve never been. The heir to the Holtsmann hotel empire who is in the Maldives, scouting out locations for a new resort. A guy, Lance, who is on the west coast but might be moving back east. Someone named Nash who is . . . somewhere. A guy named Tripp who is . . . somewhere else.
My brain is full of bubbles, and my attention wanders. The lounge is nearly full now and the music has gotten louder. There are people gyrating on the dance floor, lights glittering overhead. So many colors. I never realized places like this have so many different colored lights. There is white, of course. And lots of pink and purples. So sexy. And an icy shade of blue, too.
God, this place is gorgeous.
I inch closer to Tristan. He’s gorgeous, too. I can’t believe he’s mine.
For now, anyway.
And his bestie is my half-brother. I cover my mouth and giggle, leaning into Tristan as I examine Bryce. We have the same father, it wouldn’t be surprising if we shared some characteristics. I can’t see any, though. Maybe if I move a little closer . . .
Jesus. Get it together, Reina. I catch myself just before I topple forward. What am I planning to do, crawl across the table and examine every one of Bryce’s features? My throat feels dry, even after all the champagne. Or maybe because of all the champagne.
“You okay?” Tristan’s face swims into focus.
“Yeah. I’m fine.” I pat his knee. “Don’t worry about me.” I nestle into the crook of his arm, close my eyes. Earlier tonight, massive numbers of takeout containers had magically appeared in one of the conference rooms and everyone ate dinner as they worked. But not me. My appetite was squashed by the revelation that Bull Capital was making a play for Bettencourt. And four glasses of sparkling wine on an empty stomach has made me sleepy.
Until something inside the breast pocket of Tristan’s suit buzzes directly in my ear. I rear back, blinking in surprise.
“Sorry about that,” he says, kissing the top of my head as he pulls out his phone and slides out of the booth.
“So, how long have you two been together?” Bryce asks.
“Not long.”
“You met at Bettencourt?”
“Not exactly.”
“You always this talkative?”
I laugh. “Sorry.” I dart a glance at Tristan, who is about ten feet away. His phone is pressed to his ear, an intense scowl on his face. A bad feeling swirls inside my stomach. I clear my throat and turn back to Bryce. “We’re just . . . still pretty new.”
He cocks his head to the side. “Are you sure we haven’t met before?”
Chapter 17
@BettencourtBets: Our sexy scion is having a run of bad luck. What’s at stake? His girl, his reputation, and even Bettencourt!
Tristan
“Security found something.”
“Tell me.”
“You don’t want to hear this over the phone. We pinged your cell, there’s a car waiting outside. Is Reina with you?”
“Yes. Why?”
“This should probably stay between you, me, and the tech guys waiting to brief us. It might mean something, it might mean nothing. But you need to hear what they found.”
Whatever it is, it obviously isn’t good. There’s no reason to wait until I get to the office. I hold the phone more closely to my ear. “Spit it out, Kyle. Then I’ll get in the car.”
“Can she hear me?”
I frown at the question. “No.”
The low, rhythmic thud of a base drum pounds out an ominous beat as I wait. “Tech just got back to me. It’s her, Tristan. It’s Reina. She’s the leak.”
Every syllable is a sucker punch to my gut. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“She’s been receiving calls from a phone registered to Bull Capital about once a week since we gave her a phone. I don’t know anything prior to that, obviously before we hired her she had her own plan and we can’t access it—not without illegally hacking the phone company’s internal systems.”
I take the phone away from my ear, end the call. As my brain struggles to process Kyle’s words, I study Reina’s profile with fresh eyes. Her forehead and chin are even, nose tilting upward just slightly. Flawless as a carved cameo.
Or maybe a Trojan horse.
I stomp back to the table, remaining standing at the edge. “Kyle needs me at the office.”
Reina gazes up at me, her eyes shining with warmth. She looks like she wouldn’t know a secret if it slapped her in the face. “Oh, okay.” She reaches
for her purse.
I shake my head. “No. You’re not coming with me. I’ll take you home.”
“Home?” She frowns, looking both hurt and confused. “I don’t want to go home.”
“Back to my place then.”
Bryce jumps in. “Let Reina stay here. Go get your shit done, and come back.”
My eyes flick back and forth between them, feeling like there’s something going on beneath the surface I can’t quite read. “Is that what you want?”
I don’t feel good about leaving Reina, but if she’s involved with any of the Van Hornes, we certainly don’t belong together.
And if this is all just a crazy misunderstanding to be straightened out, Bryce will stay with her until I return.
Reina hesitates, but only for a few seconds, before answering. “Yes, I’ll stay. But hurry back, okay?”
The DJ has started spinning tunes in earnest now, but the loud music doesn’t override the questions taunting me like a frustrating game of whack-a-mole. Has Reina been hired by Van Horne to infiltrate Bettencourt? Is she the spy? Am I wrong about Bryce— Could he be involved?
I slide my phone back in my pocket, weighing my options. Stay or go. Leave Reina here with Bryce or take her home.
A strobe light streaks over my face, the flash of white blinding. And in that brief moment, the woman I see isn’t Reina. It’s Elise, the woman who played me for a fool because I took every damn word she said at face value. I cannot make that mistake again.
What I need is more information.
And distance.
Reina’s hand grabs mine as I’m about to turn away. “Hey, are you sure? I can take a nap in your office, sober up. I’ll be good as new in a couple of hours.”
My spine feels like a rusty, brittle rod that might snap at any moment. “I’ll be back before you miss me, promise.”
My attention shifts to my oldest friend. If that’s what he still is. “Take care of her, Bryce. Understand?”
He rises so that we are face to face, eye to eye. “I’ll treat her like she’s my sister.”