Penthouse Prince: A new York City Romance

by Tara Leigh

  I glance back at Reina, a part of me hoping that she’s changed her mind. That she won’t want to stay without me. She lifts her shoulders up to her ears, squirming on the leather banquette. “Just . . . Come back, okay?”

  I nod, then pivot and head for the exit before I change my mind. But my steps slow as I cross the sidewalk, my neck arching back. I can’t help scowling at the nighttime sky, devoid of even a single star. Not even Polaris can break through the haze of pollution and light surrounding this city.

  It’s just as well, I guess. I don’t want to think my mother is up there, watching this shitshow.

  I slide into the backseat of the waiting Town Car, weighing various possibilities in my mind. I’ve built a close-knit team, and I’ve worked hard to be the kind of boss who inspires loyalty in those around me. I can’t picture anyone in my group, or anyone at Bettencourt, stabbing me in the back.

  But of all the people who could be holding a knife— it will hurt most coming from Reina.

  Because I love her. I am in love with Reina St. James. The pain ripping through me at the thought of her betrayal renders it undeniable.

  I stride through the revolving lobby doors, casually nodding at the front desk attendants like my world isn’t falling apart. Upstairs it’s relatively quiet. Two twenty-something guys dressed in rumpled suits sit on the couch in my office, laptops across their knees. I know their names are Dale and Tim, though I can’t remember which is which. Kyle stands by the window, sipping from a coffee cup.

  I close the door firmly behind me, leaning against the wall and crossing my arms.“Tell me everything you know.”

  Kyle looks from the tech guys to me, then at the contents of his mug. “We issued Reina a phone on her first day, and there have been several calls from a number registered to Bull Capital. Until tonight, they’ve been incoming calls. But immediately after your father disclosed that they’re making a play for us, Reina made a call.”

  I picture the first moment I saw Reina, feel the heat of her smile on my skin. She couldn’t have faked that, could she?

  My head is reeling, and I clutch at any straw within reach. “How do we know she’s not talking to one of her friends, a Bull Capital hire she knows from school?”

  “We don’t know yet. The phone could belong to a hedge fund employee. It could also belong to Mr. Van Horne, or his chauffeur, or a member of his family, or—”

  “That’s just great,” I snap. “So you have no clue who Reina’s talking to.”

  “We’re trying to find out. Without hacking Reina’s personal cell phone records, there’s no way—”

  I eye Kyle’s mug. “Is that coffee?”

  He gives a sheepish grin. “I raided your stash after I called you.”

  I walk over to my bar cabinet, pull out two crystal tumblers, and pour three fingers of forty-year-old Black Bull into each as the tech guys look on hopefully. “No,” I say, answering their unspoken question. “You two need clear heads. I don’t care how you do it, but if a few phone calls are the tip—you’d better find me the goddamn iceberg.”

  “Sir, we can do that, but . . .”

  “But what?” I bark.

  “It’s not exactly—”

  “It’s just that it’s kind of—”

  “Illegal,” they finish in unison.

  “I don’t give a fuck what it is. I want an update in an hour. And dig into Reina’s background, too. I’m sure we did a basic credit check before we hired her. But I want a full financial profile. Who’s on her lease? Does she have any debt? Any large deposits or withdrawals, especially cash?”

  They scramble off the couch and down the corridor like two rats racing toward a block of cheese. I let out a deep sigh and collapse into the chair behind my desk, loosening my collar. Kyle does the same in one of the chairs near the window. “Thanks for getting me down here.”

  “Maybe it’s nothing,” he offers, pretending to be optimistic for my sake.

  I snicker. “You don’t have to blow smoke up my ass. You said it yourself—What do I really know about her?”

  “For what it’s worth, I can’t see Reina plotting against you.”

  In my gut, I agree with him. But I also know, better than anyone, how easily money can distort reality. The line between right and wrong is thin, and too often blurry. “What if Van Horne is blackmailing her?”

  Reina

  I wish I knew what Kyle said to Tristan to put that sour look on his face. If it was anything serious, anything genuinely troubling, Tristan wouldn’t have promised to come back . . . right?

  But thanks to the buzzy effects of too much alcohol, my concern fades soon after Tristan is out of sight, along with my fear of exposure.

  I was raised as an only child, and yet here I am, sitting across from the second sibling I’ve met in two weeks. I decide not to waste the opportunity to get to know Bryce better.

  “Why is it that you’re so anti-Wall Street?” I ask him now.

  Bryce laughs. It’s a nice laugh, deep and joyful. The kind of laugh that makes me wonder if he has any demons at all. “I’m not anti anything.”

  “You have to be against something.”

  “Why?” Bryce’s shirt bunches, buttons straining as he shrugs. “I mean, beyond the basics. Human rights violations, sexual trafficking, child pornography, littering.”

  “Littering? You put littering in the same category as kiddie porn and sex slaves?”

  The girl beside Bryce glares at me, silently seething as she drapes her arm across his thigh. If looks could kill, I would be flatlining.

  “I guess you’re right.” He reaches for the bottle half-submerged in the bucket to my right. “That deserves a refill.”

  “Careful now, you promised Tristan you’d treat me like your sister.” I wag my finger at him. “Do you get your sisters drunk?” Watch it, Reina. You’re getting way too comfortable.

  “Ha,” he laughs. “Never on purpose.”

  I push the envelope a little further. “You have two, right?”

  “You were paying attention.”

  “Well, I met one of them already. In Atlanta.” Shit. No need to draw attention to the sibling who actually knows who I am. Well, sort of. I’m sure I would have heard her brain explode by now if she discovered that we share the same father, too.

  “Right, Tristan’s interview.” He gives a slight shake of his head. “Wendy could probably use a drink these days.”

  I want to ask Bryce more about her, but I don’t want to pry. And I want to ask about his father—our father, really. But it would take another bottle, at least, for me to be that stupid. “What about your other sister?”

  “Celeste.” His face softens. “She’s great. She’s in her final year of college, I think she’s spending the semester abroad. Spain, maybe. Or Italy. I can’t remember.”

  Bryce’s grip on his glass is tight, I can see the strain in his fingers. He tosses back what’s left in it and flashes a dimple at me. “I didn’t used to be much of a drinker. But with this shoulder, the only things that help are booze and pills. That and being on the ice. I don’t even feel it then.”

  “You’re not supposed to mix the two, you know. Alcohol and painkillers.”

  He blinks. “You a doctor, too?”

  “No. Just a concerned sis—” I catch myself. “—citizen.”

  He lifts his glass. “To a very beautiful concerned citizen. And the bastard—I mean, friend—who is lucky to have her.”

  My brother is quite the charmer. We clink glasses.

  “Are your parents still married?” I ask, angling the conversation toward my mother. As the disgruntled child she left behind, I have a toxic need to know what she left me for. Every painful detail.

  “No. They divorced a long time ago. My father remarried and my mother has become quite the cougar. Her latest fling was with the pool boy, I think.” He flashes a stony grin. “Needless to say, the holidays are real fun in my neck of the woods. How about yours?”

  “My
family is . . . complicated,” I say evasively. “Are you close with your father and stepmother?”

  “Ah, no.”

  On second thought, maybe I don’t need to know every detail. And I definitely don’t need to remind Bryce just why I look so familiar. Time to change the subject. “So, how long have you known Tristan?”

  “As long as I can remember.”

  I roll my eyes. “I knew it.”

  Bryce cocks his head to the side. “What?”

  “I knew there had to be some sort of preschool for all of you.”

  “All of us?”

  “All you hedge fund heirs and venture capital cubs.”

  He cocks his head to the side. “Investment banking babies? Private equity progeny?”

  “Tycoon toddlers!”

  “Financier families!”

  We are laughing now, holding our bellies, doubling over as we shout out alliterations.

  “Law partner progeny!”

  “Ha! We said progeny already. No repeats,” I wheeze.

  “I think I’ve got one more left in me. CEO scions.”

  I grin. “Me too. High net worth whippersnappers.”

  We high-five across the table, giggling like the drunken fools we are. The girl at his side finally has enough and stalks off. We laugh even harder.

  “Sorry for ruining your chances tonight.”

  Bryce wipes at his eyes. “Totally worth it.”

  In the quiet lull that descends, I feel a pang of yearning for Tristan. I wish he was here with us. I unzip my purse and pull out my phone.

  Me: R u coming back?

  “Another drink while we wait?”

  I tuck my purse on the seat beside me. Despite missing Tristan, tonight is going so well. When will I have another chance to get drunk and silly with my only brother? “Why not?”

  Chapter 18

  @BettencourtBets: Bet IVy got quite the shock when he checked out Page Six this morning . . . Hedge Fund Harlot- ouch!

  Tristan

  I leave the cyberstalking to Dale and Tim, and set my feelings for Reina aside. If the worst is true, if she really is an agent of Van Horne’s, then my sole responsibility is clear and incontrovertible.

  Save Bettencourt.

  For better or worse, I was born into a banking dynasty, and its fate rests in my hands.

  Ultimately, investors only care about their bottom line. So rather than twiddle my thumbs while I wait, I do what I do best—manage Polaris’s investment portfolio.

  After an hour, Dale and Tim slink back into my office. “Employees of Bull Capital’s hedge fund division are assigned phones registered to Bull Capital Holdings, Ltd. The phone number St. James was in contact with is registered to a different holding company. An LLC.”

  “So we know she’s not talking to a friend who just happens to work for Bull Capital.”

  They nod.

  “Does this information make it less likely or more likely that the person on the other end of the line is Gerald Van Horne?”

  “It’s hard to say.”

  “But you still don’t have a name for me.”

  “Not yet.”

  “And her finances? Any large deposits lately?”

  “We . . .” They look at each other, then back at me. “We haven’t gotten that far yet. The information you want takes time, but we’re close.”

  I curse. “Come back to me when you do, or in another hour, whichever is sooner.” Reina’s text flashes on my screen as they scurry away. I don’t answer it.

  “Anything?” Kyle leans against the open door.

  I repeat what I’ve learned. He whistles. “Damn. I’m sorry.”

  “Why? You weren’t exactly a fan of us being together.”

  “Maybe not. But I like Reina. And she makes you happy. Believe it or not, I was getting used to the two of you.” He sighs. “There’s something off, though. Don’t you think? I just can’t see her being a pawn in Van Horne’s game.”

  “Same here—at least not willingly. It’s going to kill me if those two jackasses prove us wrong.”

  Kyle nods, knocking his knuckles against the doorjamb as he walks back out to his desk without saying anything further.

  After another update, with still no definite answer, I lose my patience and call my friend, Tripp Montgomery, who runs an outrageously successful cyber-security firm.

  In lieu of hello, he says, “It’s about time you called.”

  I’m caught off guard. “It’s only been a few hours. How the hell do you know already?”

  “Hours? BettencourtBets has been shading you, hard, for months.”

  I run a hand over my face. “Christ. Is there anyone that doesn’t get those tweets?”

  “No one I know. Want me to get you a name?”

  “Nah, there’s something else I need your help with first.”

  I hear Tripp sigh. “I can walk and chew gum at the same time, you know.”

  “This is more important.” I spend the next few minutes explaining everything that’s going on with Reina, pausing only when Tripp interrupts with relevant questions. When I’m finished, it’s my turn to sigh. “I’m crazy about her, Tripp. I need to know what’s going on.”

  “Got it. I’ll have an answer for you within a few hours. But, can I ask you a really basic question?”

  “Shoot.”

  “Have you asked Reina about any of this?”

  I frown. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, have you explained about the phone calls, asked her directly who she’s talking to and why?”

  “I—” I stop, my mouth snapping shut. “I don’t want to tip her off.”

  “You really think you’d fall for someone who’s running game on you?”

  Tripp and his wife, Jolie, went through hell and back together, against all odds. No one is happier for them than I am, and I know his questions are coming from a good place. But Tripp doesn’t know about Elise and I’m not in the mood to excavate my past. “Look, if you don’t want to help—”

  “Of course I want to help. I’m just saying, while I dig into it, what’s the harm in asking for her side of things? If you really do care about her, give her a chance to explain.”

  I think about it for a long moment before realizing that Tripp is right. Why am I waiting on two tech nerds to tell me about Reina when I can go right to the source?

  Is she a spy for Van Horne or isn’t she?

  I pull Reina’s tiny button out of my pocket, the one I found on the dresser of my Atlanta hotel room, and flip it like a coin. I’ve kept with me ever since, moving it from pocket to pocket just like I transfer my phone and wallet from one day’s outfit to the next. Heads, she’s a spy. Tails, she’s not.

  Except that the button isn’t a coin. The back and front look exactly the same. I can flip it a million times and never have an answer.

  I shove it back in my pocket and return to Cielo. The VIP lounge is now packed, and it takes twenty minutes to determine that Bryce and Reina are nowhere to be found. And neither of them are answering their phones.

  After confirming with the bouncers that they left together, something I should have done before wasting my time looking upstairs, I check the app on my phone that serves as a window into my apartment’s security system, and access the log of all entrances and exits. But there’s nothing. The front door hasn’t been opened since this morning, which means Reina must have gone back to her apartment in Morningside Heights, an area of the Upper West Side popular with Columbia students.

  Her building doesn’t have a doorman, just a steel-paneled intercom beside the front door. There’s no answer at her unit, so I resort to pressing every other button until someone buzzes me in. Reina’s apartment is on the highest of five floors, with no elevator in sight, a fact I find inordinately pleasing despite my pounding pulse as I jog up the stairs. Surely if she’s playing me, between her Bettencourt signing bonus and salary, plus her take from Van Horne, she’d be living in a much nicer place.

&nbs
p; Banging on her door yields only an irate neighbor. Several, in fact. As I tap out a WHERE R U? text to Reina, it vibrates in my hands. Dale. Or Tim. I still can’t tell which is which.

  “What did you find out?”

  “Before she started at Bettencourt, Reina St. James was almost two hundred thousand dollars in debt, mostly from student loans. It’s half that now—” my heart sinks like a stone before he finishes his sentence “—because she used most of her signing bonus to pay it off.”

  I nearly choke on the relief flooding my veins. “What about her bank accounts?”

  “The only deposits in the past few months are from Bettencourt—her signing bonus and salary.”

  “No cash deposits?”

  “Not one.”

  No money from Van Horne or Bull Capital. That puts a small dent in my suspicions. “Good work. And how about the phone?”

  “Still working on it.”

  A few minutes later, Tripp calls. “The phone belongs to Gayle Van Horne, Gerald’s second wife.”

  “Are you sure it’s not Van Horne who’s using it?”

  “I can’t rule out the possibility. But almost all of the calls are to department stores like Saks Fifth Avenue and Neiman Marcus as well as smaller boutiques. Also various spas and doctors’ offices, mostly dermatologists and plastic surgeons. I cloned the number of a florist she called recently, and pretended to ask about an order. The woman who answered gave her name as Gayle Van Horne.”

  I allow myself a grin, even though it does beg the question— Why is Reina in contact with Gayle Van Horne? But still, I’m pleased.

  “Thanks, Tripp.”

  “Anytime. I’ll keep digging, nail down Reina’s connection to the Van Hornes. Should have an answer to you before trading opens.”

  I look at the time. Shit. It’s late. I thank my friend again and hang up.

  Where the fuck is Reina?

  I hunker down on the floor outside Reina’s apartment, expecting to hear her footfalls on the stairs any minute. Over the next hour, I demolish my inbox, replying, sorting, and deleting until there’s not a single email left. Then I log into Bettencourt’s internal server, combing through research reports I’ve been meaning to get to for days. By 3am, my phone is out of juice.