Penthouse Player

by Tara Leigh

  And then he stopped.

  I told myself to look away and turn back to my date. John was attractive and sweet, albeit a tad boring. Not in the same league as the man standing ten feet away from me. Maybe not even the same species. That man’s dark hair was the slightest bit too long, and the knot of his tie just crooked enough to tell me there wasn’t a wife or girlfriend in the picture who would have certainly straightened it. He was a few years older than me, maybe more than a few, and his eyes were a deep blue, slightly crinkled at the corners. Stalling, I took a sip of my drink, the acidic notes of the cheap wine clawing at my taste buds. I’ve never settled, why start now?

  So I offered my most enticing smile, the one I’d been perfecting for years. Sincere and encouraging, it brimmed with counterfeit confidence. My smile had earned me forgiveness when I deserved none, a seat in first class though I’d only paid for coach.

  And everything about this man screamed First Class. He belonged in this room, filled with the wealthiest, most successful people in Manhattan. I didn’t, but that had never stopped me before. I’d been wearing a mask for so long, at this point it would take a crowbar to remove.

  Not long after skipping out on the cotton candy, the “familiar stranger” had reached out to my mother. More than a decade after walking away from the young woman he’d impregnated and then cast aside, Gerald Van Horne was finally willing to leave his wife. But he drew the line at admitting to his three legitimate children that a teenaged love-child had resulted from his past affair. I wouldn’t have helped his political aspirations, either. Over the years, Van Horne had lobbied hard for a cabinet position, or prominent ambassadorship. So far, he’d come up short, and I’m sure it galled him that his influence didn’t quite reach the White House.

  To her credit, it took my mother nearly a year to decide to leave her husband and child for her former fling. But love and, of course, money won out. They married in a splashy ceremony I wasn’t invited to attend, although by then I was safely ensconced in a posh New England boarding school. Not that Van Horne’s money paid for it. No, the man I called Dad refused to take his money, if any had even been offered. He became an English teacher at the best school with a job posting. I wasn’t one of the privileged elite; I was a faculty member’s daughter. But I excelled there, making friends, or at least not accumulating enemies—easy to do at a notoriously cliquey boarding school—and earning top grades in every class.

  My smile worked. It should, I’d certainly had enough practice. Within a minute we were face to face. Almost. Although I was wearing my highest heels, I still had to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact.

  “Hey,” my date interrupted, clearly displeased by the sexual tension crackling between me and this interloper.

  The very definition of “tall, dark and handsome” grinned and I felt something liquefy deep inside my body. “Sorry, guy, I need to borrow her.” His palm made contact with my bare back, sending chills racing up my spine as my date sputtered.

  I should have felt guilty, I know that. John had shown me off to his friends when we all met in the lobby downstairs, strutting beside me in his tux like a proud penguin. He was nice enough, but it had been half an hour already, and his unoriginal commentary was a definite turn-off. I was following our conversation, barely, and forcing polite laughter at each trite punch line, but my attention was dwindling. And the longer I stayed by his side, the more he would expect at the end of the night. Things I had no intention of giving him. It was better this way. “Be right back,” I lied.

  This new, and much sexier, penguin walked me to the end of the bar, easing me into the crowd of people, then stood so I would be hidden from view to anyone looking for me from the ballroom.

  “Football or hockey?” I asked, trying to appear unruffled.

  He grinned, his face showing a hint of the devilish boy he must’ve once been. “Hockey. Why?”

  “You obviously know how to block an opponent.”

  He cocked an elegant eyebrow. “Is that what you’d call the guy you just ditched?”

  I stiffened. “What would you call him?”

  “I could think of a few things. But competition? Not on the list.”

  Ouch. I felt a pang of sympathy for John. And another pang, altogether different, somewhere else.

  “Can I get you a real drink?”

  “What are you having?” I nodded at his empty glass.

  “Scotch.”

  I wrinkled my nose. I preferred hard alcohol over wine, especially the stuff I was drinking, but not scotch. “Vodka with club soda and a twist of lime.” The bartender appeared at his side so quickly I knew it was no accident and he repeated my order, replacing my generic request for vodka with Belvedere.

  Rather than handing me my drink, he carried both of them to a table near the back of the ballroom. “Let’s sit,” he said, and flashed the kind of grin that should have made every panty in the room drop to the floor. I was a goner. He put our drinks on the table, pulled out my chair, and after we both sat he handed me my glass. This guy had serious game. “What’s your name?” he asked.

  After a moment’s hesitation, I found my voice. “Reina St. James.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Reina St. James. I’m Tristan.” He spoke with a cultured accent, but his tone had a warmth that was as genuine as it was surprising, like waking up to an Indian summer day in the middle of November.

  We clinked glasses and I tried not to wonder why he hadn’t supplied his last name since I’d clearly shared mine. Just half a glass of white wine and barely a sip of my cocktail, yet I felt drunk. I tore my attention away from him for a minute to set my drink down and take a steadying breath. The hem of my dress rose as I crossed my legs, and I noticed the slightest catch in Tristan’s breath. Good, I shouldn’t be the only one feeling off-balance here. “The pleasure’s all mine, Tristan.”

  “Somehow I doubt that.”

  “My date might come looking for me.”

  Again with the eyebrow. Like a disdainful tic. “He might. If he does, should I let you go?”

  My pulse raced. I had absolutely no intention of leaving his side anytime soon and shook my head. There weren’t many guys who could compete with Tristan, and John certainly wasn’t one of them. “Unless of course you want to get rid of me?”

  “Not quite yet.”

  His tone might have been teasing, but I didn’t miss the thud of a challenge being thrown down. It was just what I needed to keep from simpering at his feet. I straightened in my chair. “When I begin to bore you, I hope you won’t hesitate to let me know.”

  His lopsided smile offered a delicious flash of dimple. “I don’t often hesitate, Reina. About anything.”

  Damn. Had we been alone, I had no doubt we’d already be naked.

  My breathing was not nearly as even as it had been a few minutes ago and I searched for sarcasm to lighten the air. “Is that like admitting you’re trigger happy?” To my own ears I sounded less teasing and more strangled, and prayed he didn’t notice. Out of necessity, I’d become adept at manipulating situations to my advantage. Although my family drama could have been scripted by a bad soap opera screenwriter, I hid it with hard work and a megawatt smile.

  I’d spent the past four years working toward an Ivy League degree, and was six figures in the red to prove it. Come Monday I would finally have a view from the inside of a skyscraper, although the corner office might take a while longer.

  But for tonight, I was quite happy with the view in front of me.

  Tristan raised a sweeping eyebrow as he lifted his drink to his lips. “Depends on who’s pulling the trigger.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  @BettencourtBets: Place ur bet—which Bettencourt employee took home more than an auction prize last night? Hint-if this was Spain, we’d call him Quatro.

  Tristan

  Normally good scotch felt soothing, an amber balm capable of easing any situation. But as I took a sip from my glass, eyes anchored to Reina’s, I felt anyt
hing but soothed.

  “How about the target? Would that be a factor?”

  The last time I choked on my drink there hadn’t been a razor in my cabinet yet, but tonight it took every ounce of self-restraint I had to swallow the fiery liquid. “No doubt. Are you offering, Reina?”

  She tilted her head to the side, exaggeratedly considering. “I haven’t decided yet. But when I do, you’ll be the first to know.”

  “And I look forward to it.”

  She nodded. “So, most guys don’t show up at these things unless they’re with a date.”

  “I suppose that’s true.”

  “Let me guess, you’re one of the prizes being auctioned off tonight? You know, pay a fortune to spend the night with Mr. Wonderful.”

  “Mr. Wonderful?” Good thing my ex wasn’t here, she’d quickly set Reina straight. “I’m flattered. How much cash would you spend for a night with me?”

  “That would depend.”

  “On what?”

  “Just how wonderful are you?”

  Leaning forward, I lowered my voice. “I’ll happily give you the opportunity to find out for yourself.” This time I enjoyed the flush that crept above her collarbone. I had to curl my hand into a fist to keep from tracing the pink path up her cheek.

  She recovered well. “I guess this is a good time, then.”

  “For what?”

  “To warn you that I’m rather discriminating about the opportunities I choose to accept.”

  The lights flashed, temporarily putting an end to our playful banter. My father had bought four tables, at a cost of $50,000 each, and was now firmly bunkered down, surrounded by several senior Bettencourt employees and their wives. Among the tables, two chairs stood empty, reserved for me and the date I’d chosen not to bring. I could have easily led Reina to them, but I didn’t.

  She would have been welcomed. More than welcomed, actually. But I decided to save the women from having to watch as their significant others spent the entire evening undressing Reina with their eyes. Or maybe it was that the thought of a casually leering smile tossed in Reina’s direction made me want to put my hand through someone’s face.

  There were several speeches I didn’t hear, including one by my stepmother, followed by a slide show I didn’t see featuring the children or animals, probably both, who would supposedly receive the money raised here tonight. And then a live auction that seemed to last forever. I bought something, a box at the Stanley Cup I think. But it could just as easily have been a behind-the-scenes tour of Versailles or a ride in the Goodyear blimp. I raised my paddle once or twice and would surely receive the details, along with an exorbitant credit card receipt, via messenger tomorrow.

  A soggy salad was followed by an inedible steak, although each course was preceded by a fresh drink courtesy of my new favorite bartender, who eagerly pocketed the hundred I gave him every time. After pushing my plate away in disgust, I finally asked the question that had been bothering me all night. Every word that came out of Reina’s mouth led me to believe she was older than she looked, but in good conscience I couldn’t take her home until I knew for sure. “How old are you?”

  She answered my question with a question. “How old do you think I am?”

  “Oh, no.” I’d seen too many Dateline exposés to fall for that. “I don’t get my rocks off by robbing the cradle.” Never mind that my last name practically guaranteed that any sleazy liaisons I engaged in, unwittingly or not, would be irresistible fodder for Page Six of the New York Post. A scandal was just about the only thing I couldn’t afford.

  “Twenty-five.”

  That put eight years between us, just shy of cradle-robbing territory. I could work with that. “And you live here, in the City?”

  She nodded. “You?”

  “Yes.”

  “Of course, I don’t know why I bothered asking.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  Reina looked around, laughing. “This isn’t exactly a bridge and tunnel crowd.”

  “Only someone from the tri-state area would say that.”

  “You got me, I’m from Long Island. And let me guess, you’re from Connecticut. Greenwich, right? Although you look like a boarding school brat, so you probably haven’t spent much time there since your Little League days.”

  I watched as she took another sip, ice cubes sliding down the glass and making contact with her lips. I never knew it was possible to be jealous of ice, but I was. Oh man, I was. I cleared my throat. “Am I that obvious?”

  She looked me up and down, unapologetically taking her time. “Kinda. Want me to guess your position?”

  This time I did choke. “Excuse me?” Over the course of the evening, Reina and I had slid our chairs close together so as not to shout over whoever was holding the microphone. At this range I could easily pick out the glints of gold in her green eyes, and right now they sparkled with mischief. I felt myself hardening inside my pants, which I’d just discovered were cut slightly too close for comfort while being teased by a she-devil.

  “I meant from your hockey team,” she chided coyly.

  “Oh.” I swallowed. “Sure. Take a guess.”

  “Definitely offense. But not center.” She leaned into me, her breath warming my neck. “Something tells me you rarely approach things head-on. That you like to watch and strategize, hunting down weakness in your opponent’s defenses. And when the opportunity arises, you seize the moment and take control.” Reina sat back in her chair, a cat - that - ate - the - canary smile spread across her face. “Right wing.”

  Fuck. There was only so much a man could take. I reached out to wrap my hand around the upper frame of her chair, my wrist resting lightly on her shoulder, and leaned toward her. Another two inches and I could lick the gloss off her pouty, pink lips. Close enough for Reina to push me away. Or better, close the distance between us. She did neither, instead meeting my stare head on. But was it an invitation or a challenge? “I’m going to be a good guy here, Reina, and give you one warning.”

  I paused, looking for the slightest hint of fear or hesitation in her flawless face. There was none. To hell with it. “If you’re going to play games with me, I’ll happily share my strategy with you. Not only will I discover every single nerve and crevice in your vulnerable, and very naked body, I will devour and exploit every one of your weaknesses. I won’t merely control you, Reina. I will own you.”

  I released my hold on her chair and forced myself to back away. But I didn’t get far before Reina hooked a polished fingertip beneath my bow tie and pulled me back, even closer than before. Her lips parted and I watched as a glistening pink tongue swept slowly across them. When she spoke her voice was low and throaty, exactly how I imagined it would sound if I made her beg for release.

  “Prove it.”

  Reina

  The words shot out of my mouth before I thought them through. Was I crazy? Not only had I lied about my age, adding two years so that Tristan wouldn’t pat me on my head and send me on my merry way, but I’d issued an ultimatum no man could back down from. Sure as hell not the man sitting in front of me.

  When I first noticed Tristan, the attraction was undeniable. I mean, the guy was gorgeous. The way he walked through the crowd, with a surefooted athletic grace, he was clearly accustomed to being at the top of the food chain, even in a room full of Wall Street heavy hitters. But nothing about Tristan screamed predatory alpha male until the last few minutes of our conversation. Every time I crossed my legs, I could feel the desire building inside of me, drenching the wisp of lace Cosabella passed off as underwear. If I had teased a guy my age like I’d just done with Tristan, they might’ve taken the ball and run with it, but they never would’ve had the confidence to take it, bat it around, and then toss it back in my lap. I’d broken up with my last boyfriend well over a year ago, and I wasn’t a nice - to - meet - you, let’s-go-back-to-your-place kind of girl. But tonight? If Tristan was doing the taking, I sure as hell could be. I wanted to spend the nigh
t with him, badly. The only thing missing was my invitation.

  There would’ve been silence between us, if not for the thunder of applause that greeted the winner of the last auction prize, a private dinner with the most recent Oscar-winning producer and the star-studded cast of his new blockbuster movie. As a surprise, the lead actress herself, a Hollywood bombshell by anyone’s standards, came out to spur on the bidding and congratulate the ultimate winner. Tristan’s gaze never wavered from my face, studying me skeptically as if he knew I was in over my head. And he would be right, although I’d eat my own stilettos before admitting it.

  Not long after coming face-to-face with my biological father, I realized that if I could only be good at one thing, it should be lying. A good liar has to be good at everything. I would spend hours in the mirror, training my expression to remain neutral, so I knew I could lie better than most poker players. But was Tristan buying it?

  He was obviously trying to read me, and that wasn’t a good idea. Not for me. There were too many things I needed to hide. The thread of desire that had been unspooling inside of my stomach since the moment I’d laid eyes on Tristan began to retract. What was I doing? I’d come with a date, but a minute ago I practically begged a complete stranger to take me home. I was far from a prude, believe me. But one-night stands were not my thing. They were too unpredictable.

  I backed away, reaching for the clutch I’d placed on the table between our drinks, both glasses nearly empty now. It was small, holding only my phone, license, credit card, and a tube of lip gloss. “Maybe it’s time for me to exit the field.”

  Unblinking, Tristan closed the gap between our legs so that his knees held mine captive. Most of my dresses were mid-thigh, given that my legs were one of my best features, and tonight’s cocktail dress was no exception. Tristan looked down, and I watched as one hand wrapped behind my knee, the other resting lightly on the back of his chair. A shiver of desire tapped a staccato beat up my spine as his thumb stroked the top of my thigh. Tristan’s skin was tanned, and much darker than mine. His palms were wide, fingers long with clipped nails that were neat without appearing manicured. That was good. I liked to think of men doing things with their hands, like playing sweaty games of pickup basketball, lifting weights at the gym, or even yard work. Anything was better than imagining them in a manicurist’s chair.