Penthouse Prince: A new York City Romance

by Tara Leigh

  And so am I.

  This is not who I am. I don’t sit outside my girlfriend’s apartment for hours, waiting for her to show.

  But . . . is she mine? Right now, I don’t have a fucking clue.

  When I walk through the door of my apartment, it’s as quiet as a tomb and feels just as dead, killing the slim hope I’ve been holding that I would find her here. There are no shoes kicked off in the hall, no purse left on the console table,

  But I check each room anyway, just in case. It’s impossible not to see the changes she’s wrought, even in the short time we’ve been together.

  My kitchen counter now sports a coffeemaker, several travel mugs, and a canister with Reina’s favorite roast beans. The bathroom counter now holds not just my toothbrush, but Reina’s too, along with an assortment of jars and lotions and hair ties. There are throw pillows on my couch, an afghan thrown over the arm for us to snuggle under when we watch The Thomas Crowne Affair or some other heist movie. Snuggle. I’m a man who snuggles now.

  Christ. It’s all Reina’s fault. She’s done this to me.

  And until tonight, I’ve never been happier.

  Once I charge my phone, there are no missed calls, no voice mails, no texts. Nothing. Ditto for Bryce. I call them each one more time. Still nothing.

  I should force myself into bed. Or burn off my frustration on the treadmill.

  Instead I grab a bottle of scotch and pour myself a stiff drink. And then another. After the second, I feel numb. After the fourth, I feel nothing at all.

  The sound of my phone wakes me from my drunken stupor, its shrill chirping pecking at my skull like a ravenous crow. I fumble for it with my eyes still closed, sending a lamp crashing to the floor as my thumb swipes at the screen. “Reina?”

  “Hey, no. It’s me,” Kyle says. “Listen, I’m sure you’re on your way but I—”

  Too many words. “What time is it?”

  “Six-fifteen.”

  Fuck. I untangle my legs from the afghan and sit up, ignoring the axe that crashes through my skull. “I’ll be in within a half hour.”

  “Oh. Okay. Fine. I just wanted to get your take on the whole Reina thing. I’m in your corner on this one, however you want to handle it.”

  “Yeah, about that. I think we’re in the clear, but I’m waiting to hear back from—”

  “Are you— You haven’t seen . . .” His voice trails off.

  “Kyle, you’re killing me. Spit it out.”

  “Check out the latest BettencourtBets tweet. I’ll hold.”

  @BettencourtBets: Bet IVy got quite the shock when he checked out Page Six this morning!

  “Goddamn it, Bryce,” I grit out, reading the noxious tweet as I tap the embedded link.

  Two images come to life on my screen, side by side. Reina and me. Reina and Bryce.

  I’m going to rip him to shreds, injury or not.

  “Tristan? Tristan, you still there?”

  “Yeah, I’m here.”

  “How do you want to handle this? Should I call Reina, tell her not to come in?”

  I groan, rubbing at the creases digging into my forehead. This . . . this is different. It’s not business, it’s personal.

  And it fucking hurts.

  “Just—” Call waiting beeps in my ear and I pull the phone away to glance at the screen. “Sit tight, I’ll be in soon.”

  I hang up on Kyle to pick up Tripp. “If you’re calling about the tweet, I’ve seen it.”

  “Actually, no. Although I just emailed you the identity of the anonymous poster behind BettencourtBets. What you do with it is up to you.”

  I can barely muster the energy to be appreciative. “Thanks, Tripp.”

  “I also sent you a copy of Reina’s birth certificate. Her parents are—”

  “Dead. Why are you looking at her birth certificate?”

  “You’re half right. Father, David Ewan St. James, died five years ago. Her mother, however, is very much alive.”

  What. The. Fuck? “Are you sure?”

  “I am. Gayle Marion Kelly St. James. Shortly after her divorce from David St. James, she married—”

  Holy shit. “Gerald Fucking Van Horne.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So that makes Reina what? Gerry’s stepdaughter?”

  “Looks that way to me.”

  My skull feels like it’s about to explode from the facts I’m trying to cram inside my brain. “Tell it to me straight. You’re the expert on corporate espionage. What does this mean?”

  “There are still some loose ends. I should really—”

  “Don’t bullshit me. What am I dealing with?”

  Tripp sighs, his tone professional but reluctant. No one likes to be the bearer of bad news. “Employees don’t lie about their backgrounds unless the truth would hinder their ability to infiltrate and blend in. If she told you her parents were dead, and she is still in contact with her mother, who is married to your biggest competitor, and is very much alive . . . I would say, with approximately 85-90% accuracy, she’s at Bettencourt for a reason that runs counter to your—”

  “In English, Tripp.”

  “She’s spying for Bull Capital.”

  My stomach twists into a painful knot, vying with my throbbing head on the Richter scale of discomfort. “And the photo that was taken last night at Cielo. Her and Bryce. He’s her . . .”

  “Stepbrother.”

  You know, you look really familiar. “Bryce didn’t know who she was, I’d stake my life on it.”

  “That’s very possible. The mother didn’t fight for custody. Best I can tell, she didn’t take a dime from St. James when she left, not that there was much to fight over. Soon after, the father took Reina to New Hampshire where she attended high school. I can’t find any records indicating Reina lived at any property owned by Van Horne. The Van Horne kids might not know about her.”

  “So if Reina and Bryce—” I swallow back a surge of bile, unable to say the words. Kissed? Hooked up? Fucked? “They’re not related by blood.”

  “No. Physical relations between step-siblings are not exactly embraced by society’s standards, but it’s not considered incestuous.”

  “So basically, my girlfriend has spent the past two months infiltrating,” I use Tripp’s terminology, “my life and my company, and there’s photographic proof of her looking a little too cozy with my oldest friend—who, in all likelihood, she’s spent the night with. Do I have it right?”

  “I—”

  “Tell me, what is she getting out of this? I mean, my guys combed through her finances and they didn’t find anything from Van Horne.”

  “I haven’t either. But I’ll keep looking. In the meantime, if Reina resurfaces, you should ask her. And if there’s another angle, I’ll find it.”

  My voice turns incredulous. “You’re suggesting I ask a liar what else she’s lied about . . . and expect to get the truth?”

  The question is rhetorical, and before Tripp can attempt an answer, I ask another. “What level of accuracy would you give that? One percent, maybe two?”

  Lies are like cockroaches. If you discover one, there’s an army of them hiding just out of sight.

  Reina

  “Ow.” I rub at my forehead, then press the palms of my hands against my temples. It feels like the bubbles from all the champagne I consumed last night are trapped inside my skull, expanding with every second.

  Ugh. Last night.

  Tristan never did come back to Cielo.

  Bryce and I—

  Bryce.

  I sit up, steeling myself against the shooting pain assaulting my brain. My last clear memory is leaving Cielo with Bryce, and nearly falling down the same set of stairs I tripped on coming up. Bryce caught me, though, just before I tumbled down the entire flight. Then we got into a cab and . . . Nothing.

  I must have fallen asleep in the backseat. Shit, shit, shit. Way to make a good first impression.

  But I have a more pressing problem to solve right
now. Where the hell am I?

  Moving gingerly, I swing my feet over the side of the bed and look around. I’m definitely not in my crappy little studio. And I’m not in Tristan’s modern loft either.

  This room is dark, with heavy drapes trimmed in braid and fringe obscuring the windows. Narrow slivers of light peek through the edges, revealing thick crown molding and walls covered in burgundy damask wallpaper. Mahogany furniture fills the space, embellished with claw feet, carved fretwork, and polished brass accents. I’ve been sleeping in a sleigh bed, under a luxurious gold duvet. The effect is somewhat stuffy, like a private Men’s Club. I wouldn’t be surprised to see a foursome hovering in a corner playing poker, sipping cognac and smoking cigars.

  Instead, I spot Bryce. Like me, he is still fully dressed in the clothes he was wearing last night. Sprawled out in a chair, his feet are propped up on a tufted velvet ottoman, soft snores coming from his mouth.

  My eyes fly to the door, looking for the Emergency Exit Plan that is legally required of all hotel rooms.

  There is no Emergency Exit Plan.

  Oh no. No, no, no. Bryce said he didn’t keep a place in the city.

  Is this my parents’ apartment?

  As quietly as possible, I slip out from under the covers. Picking up my shoes in one hand and my purse in the other, I tiptoe across the carpeted floor and turn the heavy brass knob, barely daring to breathe. A long hallway stretches to either side of me. Right or left? My head swivels, my heart racing. I break right, skipping across a series of Persian rugs as if they are lily pads on a lake.

  Until I run into someone. Literally. I clap a hand over my mouth, catching my scream before it ricochets through the high-ceilinged space. Thankfully, it isn’t a Van Horne.

  “I’m so sorry,” I whisper to the shocked maid, dressed in a simple black uniform, but minus the frilly white lace apron. “Are you okay?”

  She nods yes.

  “Okay, great. That’s good. Um . . . how do I get out of here?” She points down another corridor and I take off.

  Thankfully, this one is shorter, only two rugs to race across before I come to an oversized foyer and an elevator door. Of course, Van Horne has his own elevator rather than a front door leading to a shared hallway. I cringe at the loud chime as it opens, then dive inside. This is not how I want to come face-to-face with daddy dearest— sneaking from his son’s room in wrinkled clothes and last night’s mascara.

  I yank on my shoes as the elevator glides smoothly to the lobby, my relief increasing with each floor. The doorman stoically offers to get me a cab, not batting an eye at my disheveled appearance. But I decline. The sooner I’m out of sight, the better.

  By the time I jump into the backseat of a taxi around the corner, I feel as if I’ve run a marathon.

  My phone is dead, which prevents me from calling Tristan. Why didn’t he return to Cielo last night? If he’d kept his promise, this walk of shame wouldn’t be necessary.

  Then again, it’s my own damn fault for drinking too much.

  I shower and dress in record time, my mind racing. I should be thinking about Van Horne. About the dirty tricks he’ll play to get what he wants.

  But that’s not what I’m worried about.

  I’ve been so reckless. Reckless with the truth, reckless with Tristan, reckless with my heart.

  And it has to stop.

  Van Horne isn’t my nemesis. Neither is my past.

  I am my own worst enemy. I’ve so completely twisted lies with truth and truth with lies that I’ve woven the net I’m now caught in.

  I’m a damned damsel in distress, trapped in a situation Walt Disney could never have imagined. One entirely of my own making.

  “Reina.” Megan blinks, clutching a newspaper to her chest as I join her in the elevator. “What a surprise.”

  I give her a confused look. “Really?” It’s a weekday morning and I work here.

  “I— I just thought maybe today you would . . .”

  I have to prompt her. “I would . . . what?” No one calls in sick for a hangover. And although Megan is checks up on me directly and gets frequent status reports from everyone I work with—just part of the six-month long job interview—she can’t have any idea how much champagne I drank last night.

  “Nothing, nothing.” She waves a hand in front of her face. “Don’t mind me.”

  An unnerving sense of foreboding unravels inside of me as I head to my desk. Everyone I pass looks just as surprised to see me as Megan. Surprised and . . . disgusted.

  But nothing prepares me for the look on Tristan’s face. Not surprised, not disgusted. Not anything at all. His eyes are the cold steel of razor blades, registering absolutely no emotion as they cut right through me.

  Despite my quaking knees, I continue on. Though, instead of going to my desk, I detour into Tristan’s office and take a seat on his couch, twisting my hands in my lap.

  A few moments later, the door to Tristan’s office closes quietly and I’m assailed by the clean, spicy scent that clings to his skin. I dare a glance at his face, hoping I only imagined Tristan’s expressionless expression.

  But I didn’t imagine it.

  He’s two feet away from me and it might as well be two thousand miles. “What’s going on?”

  I’ve spent every minute of my commute into the office planning what to say right now. Rehearsing exactly how to lay all my dirty secrets at Tristan’s feet.

  Tristan took it in stride when I turned out to be a finance geek who, quite inconveniently, was on his payroll. But this is different. Now he’ll know just what kind of girl he’s risking everything for—Liar. Phony. The punchline to a dirty joke.

  Tristan is a value investor and I’m a penny stock.

  He’s too good for me, and not just because of his last name. Tristan is passionate and smart, and so damn gorgeous it twists my stomach every time I look at him. But more than that—he’s just good. With him, there is no pretense, no deceit. Yes, he’s privileged and cocky. But he’s also kind and generous and trustworthy.

  “You tell me,” he says, his voice clipped.

  I run my tongue across dry lips. “You didn’t come back to Cielo last night.”

  “I did. You and Bryce were already gone.” There’s a distinct edge to his voice when he says Bryce’s name. “I went to your apartment, Reina. I waited outside your door until three. You never came home. Do I have to ask where you were?”

  “I can explain.” Three words spoken by cheaters the world over.

  “Really?” He takes his phone out of his pocket, unlocking the screen before tossing it at me. I stare hard at the side by side pictures spanning his screen. One of me with Tristan, the other with Bryce. Both taken on the stairs of Cielo, both capturing an almost identical embrace. But why are they on Tristan’s phone? “Are you having me followed?”

  His stony expression finally cracks. “You think I—” He breaks off, dragging a hand through his hair. “Christ, Reina. These were taken by a freelance photographer. You made the online edition of Page Six, and it was tweeted by BettencourtBets this morning.”

  A wave of nausea slams into me. “These photos are public?” I look down at his phone again, jabbing at the screen until I get to the original post. The caption reads, Hedge Fund Harlot.

  I throw the phone away from me with a strangled gasp and cover my face with my hands. “How is this happening?”

  “You and Bryce weren’t exactly flying under the radar with an exit like that. If you wanted to fuck—”

  “What?” I peek at Tristan from between my fingers. “Are you insane? I didn’t have sex with Bryce.”

  “Oh, really? Where were you last night?”

  “I—” I open and close my mouth several times.

  He takes a step back. “While you’re at it, can you explain why you’ve been in contact with a ghost?”

  At first, I don’t understand the question. A ghost? And then his meaning becomes painful clear. My phone. My mother. My lies.

&n
bsp; I jump up and grab his arm, clinging to him as if I’m drowning. Probably because I am. “Tristan, please. It’s not what it looks like.”

  “It looks like you screwed your stepbrother. And it looks like you’ve been screwing me over since we met.”

  “I didn’t— I wouldn’t—” I take a deep, shaky breath, not knowing where to start.

  He bends down to sweep his phone off the carpet and then glares at me as if he’s a hair’s breadth away from calling security to escort me from the premises. “You want to piss on someone’s leg and say it’s raining, go find another stooge.”

  “I didn’t tell you about my mom because I’m ashamed, okay? She left me behind like I was nothing. We barely have a relationship anymore, just the occasional phone call. It was so much easier to say she was dead than to admit the truth.”

  “Why? Why couldn’t you be honest with me?” For a moment, his indifferent facade slips and I see the raw emotion behind it. Anger. Hurt. Confusion.

  “Because I fell in love with you. And I thought the only chance I had of you loving me back was if—” I stop. This is even harder than I thought it would be. Exposing my darkest thoughts, my deepest insecurities.

  “If what?”

  “If you didn’t know me. The real me.”

  “You’re not making any sense. Who is the real Reina St. James?”

  “Unloveable, for starters.”

  Tristan grips the edge of his desk so hard his knuckles turn white. Like he wants to come to me but he’s stopping himself. “That’s ridiculous,” he says, almost under his breath.

  “Is it? How would you feel, if you were me?” I wet my lips, knowing I have to keep going. I need to reveal the biggest lie of all. “Look, I don’t want your sympathy. Or your pity. I lied about my mother and I’m sorry. But that’s not all.”

  “So there’s more?” His chuckle is cruel, almost menacing. “Of course there is. For a second there, you really had me. I thought I’d been too quick to judge, too slow to consider things from your perspective. But you’re just another two-bit fraud, trying to con your way into a game you don’t deserve to play.