by Tara Leigh
I didn’t hate my name, not at all. Or my family history. I was proud of who my ancestors had been, what they had achieved. But watching Reina tally the sum total of not just my own accomplishments and failures, but of the men that had come before me . . . My raging hard-on softened to mildly aggrieved. “Tristan Xavier Bettencourt,” adding in a mumble, “the fourth.”
Reina bolted upright, grabbing a pillow to cover herself. “I have to go.”
It was the second time in an hour she’d uttered that exact same sentence and the fact that her tone was entirely different now than it had been before wasn’t lost on me. “Do you have something against bankers? Or only me in particular?”
“I just have to go, Tristan.”
I pressed my lips together, not wanting to embarrass myself any further by begging, and raked my scalp with both hands before stalking out of the room. Reina’s heels clicked on the floor as she darted toward the small pile of clothes strewn across my entryway.
I averted my eyes for long enough to assure that she was fully dressed, only to notice her struggling with the back zipper. That damn zipper again. A sound that was half groan, half growl escaped my mouth and Reina looked up, startled. I walked over, a glutton for punishment. “Here, let me.”
“Thanks.”
“Sure.” I opened the door to let Reina out and followed her into the corridor.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
I reached past her to push the call button for the elevator. “I’m going to get you a cab.”
She seemed surprised. “That’s ridiculous. I’m perfectly capable of hailing my own.”
“I never said you weren’t.”
Reina
I watched Tristan slip the driver a bill, feeling like an asshole. An entire ballroom filled with men and I had to go home with fucking IVy? He was sexy as hell, and he played my body better than I ever had. His lips were pursed in a frown, and if I kissed him, I knew I would taste myself on his lips.
But kissing Tristan Xavier Bettencourt IV, ever again, was out of the question. I can’t believe I hadn’t recognized him, although after it had been corrupted by a virus last year, I’d set my Internet browser to text-only. The cracks in my iPhone screen that I was too broke to fix didn’t help matters either.
Even so, I should have put two and two together. Tristan was the reason I’d applied to Bettencourt in the first place. In a market flooded by quant-heavy, high-frequency trading strategies, he had stunned investment experts last year by announcing he was launching a back-to-basics, value-investing hedge fund. And I wanted in.
Tristan didn’t say anything else, just patted the door as he stepped back onto the curb. I gave my address, burrowing into the dark interior like a toddler hiding behind a curtain panel. But it didn’t matter—the heat of his stare lingered on my skin as the cab merged into traffic.
Air. I needed air. I fumbled for the window switch and sucked in huge lungfuls of Manhattan’s finest. Since birth, I’d been an asshole magnet. Only this time, I was the asshole. Tristan hadn’t done anything wrong. But there was no way I could be with him. He was a luxury I couldn’t afford. A magnum of Moët, while my budget only allowed for a can of Natty Light.
Horror twisted my stomach into knots as I replayed the entire evening in my mind. If there was a rewind button, I would’ve pressed it. I would’ve stayed with my boring date, and been back at home, alone, having already pawned him off with nothing more than a kiss and maybe some heavy petting.
Because then I wouldn’t have to spend the rest of my weekend freaking out over the fact that Monday would be the first day of my new job. At Bettencourt.
With every bit of my nearly non-existent religious education, I prayed Tristan was a hands-off boss who spent most of his time locked up in his office. What were the chances he would stoop to meeting a bunch of newbies on their very first day? Maybe, just maybe, there was a slight chance I wouldn’t screw up the most sought-after job in my graduating class before lunch.
Even though my mom had left me for a billionaire, I needed this job. The tiny shoebox I lived in wasn’t cheap, and my staggering school loans wouldn’t go away on their own. Just like Tristan, I was a hedge fund heir—not that I’d inherit a dime. I wasn’t bitter, or at least I tried not to be. But Tristan and I belonged to different worlds, and in mine biology didn’t count for shit. So, as far as I was concerned, my biological father could go screw himself. I would make my own money. Lots of it. Unlike my mother, I was never going to count on a man for anything.
There was a lot of money to be made on Wall Street, but the heavy hitters worked in hedge funds. Not just any fund, though. Only the successful ones. The ones earning returns of thirty, fifty, seventy—even one hundred percent or more.
Most of Bettencourt’s hires had graduate degrees, and I was lucky to have been granted an interview, let alone snag the brass ring—an actual job. I wasn’t about to fuck it up by fucking a Bettencourt. No matter how good I knew, with every inch of my still-tingling body, it would have been.
* * *
“Welcome to Bettencourt.” There were twelve of us seated in the conference room for our orientation. It was nearly noon, and the first part of our morning had been spent filling out paperwork, taking pictures for our ID cards, and being fingerprinted. Security was as tight as I imagined it would be if I was working for the FBI. Although our starting salaries were probably higher than a ten-year veteran of the Bureau.
For the next twenty minutes or so, Megan, the woman responsible for our training class, spoke to us about the history of the bank. From Tristan Bettencourt’s noble lineage in France to his son Tristan Bettencourt II’s expansion into England and America. TB III, she explained, had taken Bettencourt in a new and exciting direction by launching a hedge fund division when he took over and making the difficult decision to close down all commercial banking operations. Bettencourt still had a few offices in Europe, and one in Bermuda, servicing high net worth individuals, but here in the financial capital of the world, its family of funds were some of the best performing on Wall Street.
For the next six months, the twelve of us would rotate through all areas of Bettencourt—marketing, research, trading, investments, account management, sales, etc.—as well as having the opportunity to work with a few fund-specific teams, before earning a permanent place in one of them. . . . Or not. “I suggest you look around this room. Half of you will not be offered a permanent position at the end of your training. Think of this as a six-month job interview.”
I looked around, wondering how many others had set their sights on the Millennial Fund. There was only one other woman seated at the conference table, a squat Asian whose eyes, when she looked up from the copious notes she was scribbling, were barely visible through her thick glasses.
Our den mother, Megan, smiled brightly as the door to our conference room opened. “And now I’d like to introduce you to the man responsible for the most successful fund launch Bettencourt has ever had. It’s my understanding that there is one spot open on his team, so watch out for flying elbows as I’m quite sure many, if not all of you, will be fighting for it. Please welcome—”
The door was at my back and I held my breath. Please don’t let it be Tristan. Please don’t let it be Tristan. And suddenly, just by saying his name to myself, I was right back where I’d been Saturday night, naked and moaning, completely controlled by—
“—Tristan Bettencourt, the fourth.”
CHAPTER FOUR
@BettencourtBets: Welcome to Bettencourt’s newest crop of wannabe bankers—12 hopefuls vying for 6 spots! Has a favorite already emerged?
Tristan
I plastered a smile on my face as I opened the door. I didn’t have time to give some kind of locker room pep talk to a dozen kids, half of whom wouldn’t be working here in six months. Even when I played hockey, I hated the forced congeniality before I could get back on the ice again. There, I knew exactly what my mission was—get the puck in the net and b
ulldoze anyone who got in my way. Period.
These days, my goal was just as simple—make money. And I’m damn good at it. But because of my last name, I also get stuck with a lot of the glad-handing. I don’t mind, too much, when it’s with someone holding a checkbook. Sucking up to potential investors is just part of the job. It isn’t my favorite part, but it’s a necessary evil.
Welcoming the rookies was a necessary evil too, albeit one I would have gladly handed off to someone else. Except the only other person in the building who shared my last name had dumped it squarely in my lap.
I’d nearly forgotten about it, too, but Megan was friendly with my assistant and had begged her to make sure I walked into conference room 17D at exactly 11:45. So here I was, walking into conference room 17D, contemplating firing my assistant.
I waved off the smattering of applause that accompanied my arrival and walked to the front of the room. Plastering a smile on my face, I nodded briefly at Megan and turned to face Bettencourt’s newest training class. Except that when I opened my mouth to launch into my obligatory speech, no sound emerged. There, front and center, was the face that had occupied most of my waking and sleeping hours since the moment I’d gotten sunburn from her smile.
Reina St. James.
She looked completely different than she had on Saturday. The light blond hair that had fallen down her back like a curtain of spun gold was now pulled away from her face. And the stunning figure that had been accentuated by her cocktail dress was hidden beneath a conservative business suit. But her eyes still stared at me exactly the way she had two minutes before walking out of my apartment, the provocative mix of fear and anger as obvious as dead autumn leaves scattered across a still lush lawn.
Megan jumped in, introducing everyone seated at the table and including a quippy fact about each. She could’ve been speaking another language until she got to the only person in the room I was interested in. “Reina St. James. She’s a recent graduate of Columbia University and won the Bettencourt-sponsored investment contest all four years.”
A flush pinkened Reina’s skin, and she broke our gaze to look down at her notebook. Megan moved on to the next person seated at the table, but I interrupted her. “That’s quite an accomplishment, Miss St. James. You should swing by my office later so we can discuss your successful investment strategy.” Was my suggestion casual enough not to broadcast my desire for Reina to everyone in the room? I had no idea. Maybe it would have helped if I could’ve looked away from her to find out.
Reina lifted her head, her expression intentionally blank although she could do nothing about her bright green eyes. They communicated everything the rest of her face was trying so hard not to. Megan looked back and forth between us and then let out an excited twitter, clearly thrilled by my interest. “I’m sure Reina would welcome the opportunity for some one-on-one time with you.” Her arms still flapping, she moved on to the next person even as my attention remained riveted on Reina. A recent graduate. Barring any unusual circumstance, that would make her twenty or twenty-one. Twenty-two at the oldest. Jesus.
Was she even old enough to drink? I should’ve trusted my instincts. I knew Reina looked young. The longer I stood in that room the angrier I got. Not at her, though. At myself.
I finally dragged my gaze away from Reina, knowing I’d already shown too much interest in her. After Megan finished her introductions, I somehow managed to get through my welcome speech without actually tripping over any of my own words. Not that it was easy. Reina’s emerald stare was like an anchor, inexorably pulling my attention toward her. With each eyeful, a pulse of desire shot through my veins. Afraid of tenting my pants if I didn’t get out of there, I wrapped up, endured another burst of applause, and excused myself.
“Mr. Bettencourt,” Megan called out before I made it out the door. “If now is a good time, I’m sure Reina would love some one-on-one time with you.”
Reina
I followed Tristan, feeling like a lamb being led to the slaughter. One-on-one time with Tristan? I’d had plenty of that on Saturday night, thank you very much. More than enough, actually. In any other situation I would’ve enjoyed the jealous stares burning through my back as I earned the attention of a person we were all trying to impress. But today I would have rather been one of them, a newbie who hadn’t received the slightest notice yet, either positive or negative. While Tristan could offer me a permanent position, he could just as easily have me fired—and I was afraid to guess which way he was leaning.
Nothing was said as he led the way down the hall, to the elevator, down another hallway, and into his private office with a sure-footed gait. He was a big man, and most would have lumbered rather than walked. But not Tristan. He prowled.
It was impossible not to recall how good it had felt to be led through a crowded ballroom with his hand at the small of my back. Or even better, lifted in his arms and carried to his bed. I gave myself a mental shake. Damn it, Reina, get your mind out of Tristan’s bedroom.
Mustering up the nerve to glance at his face, I wondered if he could see the heat creeping up my neck. But his expression was completely impassive, impossible to read.
After what felt like hours, Tristan stopped at an open door. I looked around, hoping to get a sense of him, but his office was just as impersonal as his apartment had been. Here, the furniture was dark and traditional, completely the opposite of his apartment. Obviously Tristan let other people do the decorating for him, and didn’t seem to care about his furnishings one way or another. Several paintings hung on the walls and they looked expensive, with heavy gold frames. I doubted Tristan had chosen them, either.
He closed the door behind us, and I followed him across the large room to a seating arrangement near the windows, purposely choosing a chair facing away from the clear wall that looked out on the array of desks clustered in the interior of the building. I didn’t want to take the chance of someone watching me watch him.
Thirty-six hours ago I’d walked out on Tristan Bettencourt, and today he held the key to my future in his hands. I had to convince him not to fire me. And not only that—to let me work directly for him. He was the hottest fund manager in New York right now. And if I’d had the chance to look through Money magazine before the fundraiser on Saturday, I would have seen his face staring at me from the cover. Then I never would’ve made the mistake of going home with him.
Even with my dream job on the line, I felt a rush of lust. Shit. I’d always been able to separate the things I did for fun, to let off steam, from the powerful ambition that had earned me straight A’s and nearly perfect SAT scores. But every once in a while I took a break from studying and did what most coeds did—drink a little too much and flirt with cute guys . . . but never ones I would see the next day in class. During my four years of college, I never even kissed anyone sharing my same major. I didn’t need that kind of drama. I had two goals: graduate at the top of my class and land a high-paying, fast paced job on Wall Street. Distraction was to be avoided at all costs.
And it had worked. Here I was, an ID badge for the most sought-after firm in New York slung around my neck.
Sitting across from a man who had traced the same skin with his tongue, calling out his name as he buried his face between my thighs.
I was screwed.
And not in a good way.
Today Tristan wore a dark navy suit, with just the thinnest hint of a pinstripe. Who knew pinstripes could be so sexy? Although on him, anything would be sexy. Stop it. I crossed my legs, feeling a surge of heat as he looked down at my thighs. Not nearly as much skin was exposed as had been on Saturday, but my thighs tingled as if his knees were still pressed against them. I flushed.
“Can I get you something? Water, soda?” A lopsided grin played at the corners of his lips. “No cocktails, I’m afraid.”
I struggled to match his calm, even tone. How could he sound so normal? “Water would be great.”
Tristan walked to a small refrigerator concealed behind m
ahogany paneling, and produced a clear plastic bottle. Our fingers brushed as he handed it to me, sending an electric current racing up my spine. “Thanks.”
“I don’t know many twenty-five-year-old recent graduates.”
My palm was damp, and the water bottle was covered in a thin film of condensation. It slipped through my fingers and dropped to the floor, rolling right back to Tristan’s feet. I choked out a response, my mouth dry as I stared at the runaway vessel. “I’ll be twenty-four in a few months.”
His face unreadable, Tristan bent down and tossed the bottle into the recycling bin in the corner of the room. “So, lying about your age is something you do often.” With smooth movements, he crossed the room to retrieve another bottle and returned, extending it to me.
“Not usually, no,” I answered, discreetly running my palms along my skirt before reaching for it.
“Mmm hmm. Most college grads are twenty-one, twenty-two at the oldest. Sometimes older if they’ve had a stint in the military.” Tristan’s eyes raked over me, seeing beneath my carefully chosen layers as easily as he’d lowered my zipper on Saturday night, turning my dress into a puddle on his floor. “I can’t picture you in army fatigues.”
Tristan had an unnerving habit of asking questions without actually asking a question. “No. I changed schools in my freshman year, repeating the grade because of a difference in age requirements.”
Tristan nodded. “So that accounts for one year.”
“I deferred Columbia too.”
“Deferred,” he repeated. “What did you do?”
I fumbled with the cap, struggling to answer Tristan’s simple question. I hadn’t planned to delay college, but when my dad died suddenly of an aneurism just a few months before I graduated from high school, it hit me pretty hard. And his loss was compounded when I realized it hadn’t changed anything. My mother didn’t come to my rescue. Van Horne didn’t welcome me into his family. Both my biological parents were alive and well . . . but I was an orphan. Limping through the remainder of my coursework, I mourned the loss of not one parent, but three. Smiles were pretty hard to come by, back then. Columbia would have been a disaster.
