by Tara Leigh
“I sailed around the world with a friend. She hadn’t quite figured out her path yet, and her father suggested a gap year abroad. I thought I’d take the opportunity to see the world before coming back to New York City for what I intend to be a long career on Wall Street.” Of course, my cruise only lasted until my friend’s father made a pass at me. After I turned him down, apparently not as gently as I should have, I found myself stranded in Algeria. Without my passport.
Beneath Tristan’s observant gaze, the walk down memory lane had me feeling uncoordinated and clumsy. I didn’t have enough strength in my fingers to untwist the cap.
Of course, he noticed that, too.
Tristan held his hand out and I gratefully turned over the bottle. With a small movement, he opened it and handed it back to me. I flushed. “Thanks.” Taking a sip, I collected my thoughts, seeing myself through Tristan’s eyes. Reina St. James: tease, liar, klutz.
Pull yourself together, Reina. At the very least, I needed to appear poised and professional to have a shot in hell of making Tristan forget that I was the same woman he’d backed up against his door, mewling in ecstasy as his mouth took her to a place she hadn’t even known existed. The water was a welcome relief for the scratchiness at the back of my throat, and I swallowed. “So you’re interested in my past performance?” I could have smacked my own forehead. Shot in hell? More like misfire.
“Actually yes, I am very interested in your past performance.”
Cheeks burning, I ignored the double entendre and plowed ahead, rattling off a string of technical jargon. Price-to-earning ratios, market share, foreign currency impacts. My presentation to the panel judging the most recent investment contest fell from my lips with no thought whatsoever. Which was good, because I wasn’t capable of rational thought at the moment. My returns had been nearly double those of my closest competitor, and it was probably why I’d been offered a place in this year’s training program at Bettencourt. “So I think you can see that my interest in investing runs deep and I’d really like the opportunity to work under you.” Under you? “Um, I mean with you. For you.”
Not even the slightest crinkling at the corner of Tristan’s eyes hinted that he found merit in my appeal. “I seem to recall that the last place you wanted to be was beneath me.”
He was going there. Shit. I squared my shoulders. Fine. I could too. “Yes. And this is exactly why. As soon as I saw that logo, crest, whatever, hanging above your bed, this is why I left. It’s not that I didn’t want to be with you.”
A lock of Tristan’s hair fell forward, and I had to tuck my hand beneath my thigh to keep from brushing it back. For a moment, my resolve softened. “I mean, I’m not going to lie, being with you was amazing . . . Better than amazing.” And then I realized how many women must throw themselves at a Tristan on a daily basis. He said he didn’t have one-night stands, but what did I know? Based on his looks alone, Tristan could bring home a different woman every night of the week if he wanted to. Factor in his name and bank account, and hell, he probably had to fight them off with a stick. If he fought at all.
What Tristan needed from me right now was unfiltered honesty. So I straightened, took another breath, and gave it to him. “Listen, I worked my ass off to get this opportunity. And if you give me a chance, I’ll prove that I can hang with the big swinging dicks on Wall Street. But I can’t do that if I’m sleeping with the biggest one of them all.”
Tristan
Better than amazing? And had she really just quoted Michael Lewis at me? Not from one of his recent book - turned - movies, Moneyball or The Big Short, but the classic Liar’s Poker. The book that had been written as a cautionary tale but became a cult classic, a call to arms for anyone wanting a go - big - or - go - home career in finance. Before there was @GSElevator or @BettencourtBets, before blogs or tweets even existed—there was Liar’s Poker. Unfortunately, few in the everyone - gets - a - trophy generation have ever read it.
Pride swelled my chest, yielding to begrudging respect. Both of which were quickly replaced by frustration. I sighed. Reina was right. Any hint that she had slept her way into this job would forever stain her reputation. And given the ten-year difference in our ages, the fallout from a scandalous rumor wouldn’t be good for my mine either.
I waited a beat, hoping my assessment would remove the desire heating the blood in my veins. For God’s sake, Reina St. James was a sexual harassment lawsuit waiting to happen and I knew it. I looked out the window, then back at Reina. Nope. It didn’t work. I still wanted to jump across the cocktail table, take her in my arms, and kiss her until my world made sense again. Work together? Bad idea. Terrible idea. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
Pussy-whipped fool. “Yes. I’ll let Megan know you’ll be starting your rotation in my group.” I tried to tell myself having Reina nearby was really just the smartest move—keep your friends close and your enemies closer, after all. But I had never wanted to bend an enemy over my desk and—
“You would do that for me?” Reina’s relief was palpable.
Reluctantly, I dragged my mind out of the gutter. “Sure. You would have to work on Millennial at some point anyway. And frankly, we’re opening up the fund to new investors soon. I could use an extra set of hands, especially when they belong to someone who’s so passionate about our core business.”
Yeah, I’m not going to lie—Reina’s passion was the reason I wasn’t escorting her to our legal department and asking them to cut a huge check in return for walking away from Bettencourt as fast as her gorgeous legs could carry her. I shouldn’t feel this way about one of my employees—and certainly not a twenty-three-year-old trainee.
Except that this particular twenty-three-year-old trainee wasn’t just whip-smart, she was bold and confident. And she’d been the most interesting dinner companion I’d had in months, if ever. I made a mental note to look at Reina’s file. How close was she to twenty-four? It wasn’t as good as twenty-five, but it sounded a hell of a lot better than twenty-three.
“You won’t regret it, I promise.”
I swallowed a grunt of dissent. I already did. There was a sensuality in the curves Reina covered up so well today, and I couldn’t force the memory away. It wasn’t right that Reina’s breasts practically demanded to be worshipped. Recalling the way she’d come apart beneath my mouth, embracing her orgasm with abandon, my cock pulsed to life inside my pants. Maybe it was wrong—maybe it was even illegal—but I would agree to just about anything Reina wanted if it meant keeping her close to me. “So tell me, why Bettencourt? Ivy League school, impressive GPA. I’m sure ours wasn’t the only job offer you received.” Reina could have chosen to work for any other financial services firm on Wall Street, and there were hundreds of hedge funds to choose from. But the most gorgeous girl I’d ever laid eyes on had set her sights on Bettencourt. And, more specifically, the Millennial Fund. My fund.
“No. But it was the best one. The one everyone in my graduating class was aiming for.”
“And that’s important to you?”
“What?”
“That you get what everyone else wants.”
She cocked her head to the side and looked at me warily. “Of course.”
I nodded, wondering if I should take her answer as a cautious flare. But I gave myself a mental shake. I wasn’t interviewing her to be my next girlfriend. Reina was a Bettencourt hire—and from what I could see so far, a good one. Just because I had a permanent bad taste in my mouth from a beautiful woman with an ugly ulterior motive didn’t mean I had to judge every word Reina said.
By Bettencourt employee standards, her answer was perfect. The truth was, investing was really just legalized gambling, and every worthwhile gambler had just one goal. Winning. All games had a prize, and the most successful of us were relentless in our pursuit of victory. But working at a hedge fund had an important distinction. Our bets were financed with other people’s money.
“You have the right mindset,” I acknowledged. “Wall S
treet is just one big zero-sum game. Everyone in this business owes their success to someone else’s failure. If you make a million dollars, it’s because some stooge just lost a million. And only the most tenacious survive.”
Reina’s eyebrows rose politely. “What most interests me is finding opportunities no one else has discovered yet.” The passion I found so intriguing lent a husky timbre to her voice, and I leaned forward in my chair as if drawn to her by a gravitational force. “To me, investing is like one big treasure hunt. If you do the research, and you work harder and smarter than everyone else, there’s a chance you might see something no one else has seen. If you’re right, your reward is absolute, and measured in dollars and cents.”
I cleared my throat, forcing myself to lean back. I’d never had a conversation about investment strategy make me hard. “Why don’t you tell me a little about yourself?”
Reina straightened, crossing her legs at the ankle. “Is this an interview?”
“Maybe.”
“I have a better idea,” she deflected. “I ran out on you once I realized who you were. Now that we’ll be working together, I think I should get to know you.”
I regarded her skeptically. “You do realize that’s generally not the way an interview works? I’m the one with the job opening, you’re supposed to convince me that you deserve it.”
The impish gleam in Reina’s eyes gave her an unfair advantage. “But you’ve already given me the job, right? Let’s go off-script.”
CHAPTER FIVE
@BettencourtBets: Guess who scored the pick of the litter?
Tristan
My pulse jumped. How the hell had this woman managed to turn the tables on me? “What would you like to know?” Then again, if it kept her in my office, I didn’t care.
“That’s easy. Everything.”
Easy. I stood, walking to my desk and scanning the array of computer screens with flashing numbers preceded by dollars, and charts with multicolored jagged lines. These screens were like the instrument panel in a cockpit. Just a quick glance told me everything I needed to know about Millennial’s flight pattern, and without them I’d be flying blind. Running a successful fund was not a one-man job. I had a team of professionals working with me. Traders, portfolio managers, researchers with more PhDs than most universities. There was always work to be done—but right now my screens showed blue skies. Not that storms couldn’t come up in the blink of an eye. They can and did, usually when they were least expected. Turbulence could be minimized, but avoiding it completely was impossible.
I turned back to Reina, and leaned against my desk. “Banking is the family business, but I didn’t coast through school only to be given an inflated title with no expectation of real responsibility. I graduated from Harvard, started working with high net-worth clients overseas. Realized I was bored out of my mind, went back to school for my MBA, and shifted to investing here in New York. Eventually found my comfort zone in portfolio management. Started my own fund, Millennial, a year ago.” I held out my hands, palms facing up. “So far, so good.”
“You’re not bored anymore?”
The tension between us sizzled as loudly as the grill of my favorite burger joint down the street. “No, not at all,” I declared, not referring to my work in the slightest. I watched her swallow, contemplating my response, and wondered what it would feel like to be inside of her throat, to have her tongue sweep across the head of my shaft.
“So Bettencourt is really a family affair?”
“You could say that.”
“What about your mother?”
I didn’t like talking about my mother. Scratch that. I didn’t talk about my mother. Not to friends, or girlfriends. Not to a therapist. And only in the most vague, skate - around - the - cracked - ice kind of way with my own father.
Clearing my throat, I glanced back at my cockpit, pretending to notice something urgently requiring my attention. “One second, Reina, just need to check on a trade,” I bit out. No matter how much time had passed, inside I was still a five-year-old boy with skinned knees and a bowl haircut who believed every hurt could be healed by a hug from his mom.
Standing by her bedside, I was trying to be brave, trying to be good. I hadn’t wanted to be either. I wanted to bawl my eyes out, preferably in her arms. I wanted to run and yell and make a mess, anything to have her get out of bed and chase me around the house like she used to do. But it had been weeks, maybe months, since she’d been strong enough to hold me, let alone chase me.
My mother’s eyes had taken on a yellowish tone, and they were not nearly as bright as they used to be. But a weak smile lifted her lips as she looked at me, and her hand reached out for mine. A nurse hovered nearby, adjusted the clear bag hanging above my mother’s head. “Mommy has to go soon, my sweet boy.”
I shook my head. “No, Mommy. I want you here, with me.”
Her voice broke. “I wish I could stay with you, too, with you and Daddy.” My mother glanced up, over my head, locking eyes with my father. He stood behind me, his hand reassuringly solid on my shoulder. For a moment she looked radiant. But then the coughing started up again. Deep, wheezing convulsions that shook her whole body. My hand slipped from hers and I turned, pressing my face into my father’s thigh as the nurse fussed, giving her small sips from a plastic cup, adjusting her bed.
Eventually there was quiet again, although her breaths were ragged and the machines around us beeped and buzzed. “Tristan. It’s over, see. You can look at me now.” Her voice was hoarse and raspy, and the glow she’d had a minute ago was gone, replaced by a waxy, greyish tinge. I wanted to scream. Where did my mommy go? I want her back!
“I need you to do something for me, Tristan. Something important.”
My eyes widened as I nodded eagerly. There was something I could do for her? Something that would turn her back into the mother I once knew? Anything!
“I need you to believe that I’m still here, even if you can’t see me. And that I still love you, even if I can’t hug you.”
I wanted to put my thumb in my mouth, so badly. But big boys didn’t suck their thumbs. I had to be good, to be brave. I wrapped my fingers around the aching digit. My mommy needed me. “Where will you be?”
She mustered a wan smile. “Everywhere, sweetheart. Dancing in the clouds, swinging from rainbows, skipping from star to star. I’ll be watching over you from every sunrise and sunset. You won’t be able to see me, but I promise—I won’t miss a second of the beautiful life you’ll lead. My love is that strong. And that’s what I want for you.” Her voice broke. “A love so strong you know its true. Does that make sense?”
It didn’t, not then, but I bobbed my head up and down. Her eyes fluttered shut, and I never saw them open again.
Pushing away the uncomfortable memories, I entered a few commands into my keyboard, made a show of rearranging the graphs and charts on my screens, wishing my emotions could be manipulated as efficiently. Forcing my focus back to Reina, I managed to swallow the golf ball-sized lump in my throat. “My mother is dead, and has been since I was five. Cancer.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.” Reina put a hand to her throat, clearly horrified by her faux pas, but I waved away her apology.
I doubted I would ever be at peace with my mother’s death. With all the scumbags on the face of the earth, why was she taken? I rolled my shoulders, trying to dislodge some of the tension that had settled at the base of my skull, leaching into my muscles. In thirty-three years, I had yet to meet a woman that measured up to her standards. I was far from worried, but lately I’d wondered if finding a woman to share my life with would be more satisfying than just a succession of women to fuck. The trick was, which one?
“It was a long time ago.” I cleared my throat, eager to change the subject. “However, my stepmother would be quite pleased with your concern. I’m sure she’s planning another charity fundraiser at this very moment, thinking of all the different ways she can raise money for people she has no intention of ever mee
ting.”
Her eyes radiated empathy, and I could tell she was debating whether to ask me more. But to my relief, she accepted the detour. “You say that like you don’t agree with what she’s doing.”
“I would have to care to disagree.”
“Siblings?”
“Identical twin sisters. Pia and Mia. They’re twelve now, and I still can’t tell them apart.”
Reina blanched. “Wow.”
I grinned. “Let’s just say I wasn’t unhappy to leave for boarding school.” She laughed and I decided it should be required listening, every day. “You should do that more often.” As the sound faded, I stared at her open-mouthed smile. Again, that mouth. I couldn’t take my eyes off it.
“How about your dad?”
Another question from what was clearly an unending supply. “How about him?”
“Are you two close?”
My brows arched upward. “Will you be taking my medical history after this? I’d be happy to call my internist and have him send over my chart to save you the trouble.”
“Sorry, it’s a bad habit. I love learning other people’s secrets.”
Reina did not look sorry as much as intrigued. I shifted in my chair, considering. Anyone looking for skeletons always had a few of their own. “Your turn.”
Reina
Relief swept over me when Tristan walked to his desk and started jabbing at his keyboard. At first, I’d tried to pay attention to what he was doing, but to my untrained eyes, it looked like he was just moving things around on his screens. But what did I know? I studied the small pattern in the weave of the carpet, read the headlines of the papers splayed out on the coffee table. Tried to quiet my racing thoughts. Our conversation felt more like a date than an interview. A date I didn’t want to end. If he remained just inches away from me for much longer, I might not have enough self-control to keep from crawling into his lap.
