by Tara Leigh
Out of necessity, I learned how to fit in anywhere, become indispensable to anyone. With everyone but my own parents, of course. My family history resembled a shattered mosaic. None of the pieces seemed to belong together, especially mine. Maybe at one time it had formed a meaningful picture. Or maybe not.
Either way, I was ready to create a life of my own. Blending in was a skill I could keep in my toolbox, but it wasn’t going to be my motto. Not anymore.
Swallowing a frustrated sigh, I peered outside the window to my left, letting my eyes skim along the tops of the clouds. I’d always had a fascination with Greek mythology. The idea of gods and goddesses ruling the mortal world with mercurial powers was infinitely more interesting to me than the heroes and villains battling it out in the latest Hollywood blockbuster. Every time I flew, I was reminded of Icarus, who’d soared too close to the sky on glued-together wings, plummeting back to the earth as his father looked on in horror. But never before had I felt so much like that ill-fated character.
The realization had me gripping the armrests so tightly, my knuckles were white. With a jerk, I let go, looking around to see if anyone was watching me. But no, everyone else was absorbed in either conversation or work. Feeling like a self-indulgent slacker, I pulled out my laptop and turned to a spreadsheet I’d been working on for Kyle. But I could barely focus. What would happen when Tristan and everyone else realized that I was flying high on wings slapped to my back with scotch tape and Elmer’s glue? How quickly would I plummet back to earth, among people who’d never seen the inside of a first class cabin, let alone a private plane? Who didn’t know the difference between a hedge fund and a hedgehog?
Was a night or two in Tristan’s arms worth risking my dreams? Casting a surreptitious glance his way, I tried to tell myself that the kick in my stomach was because of rough skies. But there was no turbulence in the air, it was all in my heart.
CHAPTER NINE
@BettencourtBets: Things r pretty quiet around here, but apparently SanFran is sizzling.
Tristan
I felt a breeze as Reina walked right by the empty seat next to me. She was clearly trying to be discreet, and I knew why. But I still didn’t like it. If she’d been sitting right next to me, it would have been impossible not to let my hand slide between her thighs, or turn my head toward the curve of her neck to sneak a glimpse of her cleavage, or breathe deep the scent of her perfume. Of course she couldn’t sit next to me, not while we were surrounded by people who weren’t supposed to know how badly I wanted to rip her clothes off. Or how close we’d already come to fucking like sex-crazed rabbits fueled by pheromones and raw lust.
Even the thought of Reina in my bed was like a match to a flame. And the next time we were alone, I’d be damned if anything came between us. Not Kyle, not work, and not the fucking Chinese government, who seemed intent on wrapping their country’s economy in heavy iron chains and throwing it overboard.
Which was exactly why I should be grateful to Reina for sitting as far away from me as she could get on this G550 jet. What was I thinking, letting myself get so wrapped up in her silken hair and deliciously long legs that work felt like an imposition? Since when hadn’t Millennial been my biggest priority?
Kyle was right. My desire for Reina could easily blow up in my face, and if it did, or as he’d insisted, when it did—we’d all get burned.
Then again, what if Reina was right? What if all we needed was a night or two to satisfy our hunger? Maybe after I’d slept with Reina, I wouldn’t be so goddamned obsessed with her. How could anyone sustain this level of lust? It couldn’t be healthy.
And when the hell had I become such a pussy? I couldn’t make up my mind about a girl, or control my desire for her if she was within arm’s length. What the fuck was wrong with me?
But Reina wasn’t just any girl. I shot a glance her way, my hands itching to cup her head and bring her mouth to . . .
Okay, yeah. Reina’s bypassing the seat next to mine was the right move. The smart move.
So why did it feel so goddamn wrong?
Reina
Before leaving New York, I nearly maxed out my credit card to buy a black-tie gown. Not that I didn’t have plenty of dresses hanging in my closet like the one I’d worn the night I met Tristan. Dresses in bold colors, or body-hugging black, showing enough skin to earn appreciative stares from men and more than a few jealous glares from women.
But tonight was different. I wanted to look as if I belonged in the glittering ballroom that would no doubt be overflowing with the Forbes 400. As if I had millions in the bank or a family lineage I could trace back hundreds of years. Preferably both.
Initially I’d balked at the price tag of the shimmering gray metallic, one-shouldered Hervé Léger, but as I walked into the ballroom of the Ritz-Carlton, I was grateful for its elegant silhouette. It was as conservative as a “bandage dress” could be, molding to my waist before tapering to a mermaid-style skirt. Simple and elegant, it flattered my figure without screaming bombshell.
I caught sight of Tristan moments after accepting a champagne flute from a passing waiter, the glass nearly slipping from my fingers. It wasn’t fair that he should be more attractive than everyone else in the room. He’d been born with too good of a hand, truly. Tight-knit family, more wealth than could be spent in ten lifetimes, star athlete, brilliant . . . Did he have to be so goddamn gorgeous, too?
“Are you planning on making a toast?”
“Hmmm? Oh.” I realized my arm was still mid-air and brought the rim to my lips. I would have preferred to taste Tristan rather than the champagne, but the fresh notes of the bubbly drink would do.
“You’re stunning, Reina,” Tristan said.
The champagne bombed down my throat like a roller coaster diving from the highest peak. I coughed, eyes watering as I waved my hand in front of my face. “Don’t do that to me.”
He clapped me on the back. “Are you allergic to compliments?”
I lobbed what I hoped was a warning look, but given my stinging eyes it probably came off as a plea for a tissue. “There are too many ears in this room.”
Tristan leaned down, his mouth dangerously close to my ear. “I have no problem with a change in venue,” he said in a voice thick with desire.
Neither did I. We were staying right upstairs in the hotel, we could be alone in minutes. Unfortunately for both of us, leaving right now would be way too obvious. “Don’t start.”
“Give me one good reason.”
“Kyle.”
His eyes narrowed. “Kyle?”
I took undue pleasure in seeing Tristan jump as Kyle’s hand clamped down on his shoulder. “At your service, my friend.”
Tristan
Just when I thought I was getting somewhere, Kyle appeared. An anti-wingman. “More like chaperone, I think.”
Kyle had the nerve to chortle. “Friend, chaperone . . . Tonight you get two-for-one.”
I looked between him and Reina. “No wonder you did well in his class. You two obviously think alike.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” they answered in unison, then laughed.
Jesus.
“Let’s go get a drink and work the room a bit. There are more potential investors in this room than we’ve met with in the past week.”
“Fine. Rei—”
Kyle interrupted, something he was getting way too good at. “Reina is going to do some recon work of her own. I’ve asked the rest of our team to circulate, try to match up names with faces. She can do the same.”
I didn’t want Reina to do recon work, or mingle with the crowd. I wanted her on my arm, by my side. But I didn’t have time to argue. Reina gave a quick nod and slipped into the crowd. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Yes, I did. No one would blame you for wanting to get her in bed—so does every guy in this room.” I fought the urge to growl. “But even a fool can see that you’re half in love with her, and there aren’t many fools in this room, Tristan. You ha
ve to be careful.”
The argument that sprang to mind never made it out of my mouth. Kyle was a good friend as well as my colleague, and some things didn’t need to be said out loud. But he was only half right. I wasn’t in love with Reina St. James. I couldn’t be. We hadn’t even had sex yet. We’d only met a few weeks ago. And I barely knew anything about her that wasn’t a line item on her résumé.
Except that she lit up every room she walked into.
And she took my breath away.
And she made me so hard I couldn’t focus on anything but the interminable seconds clicking away until I could finally be inside of her.
That was the pro side of the list. The cons were just as significant. Reina was my employee. Everything between us—flirting, kissing, sex (if it ever happened), a relationship—could be construed as sexual harassment. And even without the legal condemnation, there was a ten-year age gap between us. She was just a trainee, for God’s sake. Whether I was an actual criminal or not, if I was ever tried in the court of public opinion, I’d sure as hell be branded a douchebag.
It should be hard to make a name for yourself when three other men sharing the same one have already left their mark. But as a Bettencourt, hiding in the shadows wasn’t an option. And right now, I could clearly visualize two paths. As Tristan Xavier Bettencourt IV, I could be a successful financier who exceeded already high expectations. Or I could be IVy, the sleazy screwup who led with his dick and let his family, and investors, down.
There was a third path, I was sure, but it was murky.
In the meantime, I worked the room like the pro that I was. The governor of California proffered his hand, drawing me into a conversation with two senators and the CEO of a multinational energy company. Zuckerberg and I talked about Facebook’s latest earnings. Gates asked me to make a contribution to his foundation.
With this crowd, I was definitely Tristan Xavier Bettencourt IV. And I liked it. Loved it, actually.
Fuck IVy. I’d be damned if my contribution to the Bettencourt legacy was to disgrace our name, corrupt our brand.
I had to face facts, Kyle was right. Reina was off limits.
Reina
I could feel Tristan’s eyes on me as I walked away. We couldn’t keep this up much longer, this sizzling heat that never seemed to burn out.
I wanted him. Wanted him to possess me in the way I knew only Tristan could. Completely. Intensely. I craved his mouth on mine like an alcoholic craves the pungent buzz from malt liquor. Tristan Xavier Bettencourt IV was the human form of the scotch he drank—expensive, rare, and intense.
We needed to have sex, soon. It was the only way to put a damper on the fire raging between us. One night, that was all it should take. Once we’d both been sated, there would be no need for Kyle to keep us apart. We would at least be able to share the same air without sexual tension crackling between us as obvious as Christmas lights twinkling in a dark house.
I traded my empty glass for a full one, turning down a steady stream of hors d’oeuvres practically guaranteed to leave evidence in my teeth. Mingling with the crowd, I recognized many faces from financial magazines and television programming. There was a greater wealth of market knowledge in this room than in the faculty rosters of the top ten business schools combined. I’d dreamed of opportunities like this since I was in high school, was absorbing the energy in the room like desert sand soaks up rain in a storm.
“Pick up any useful intel?”
Alex, the research analyst on our road show team, appeared at my side. “Maybe.” I shared a few snippets of conversations I’d overheard.
He nodded. “Tristan and Kyle would want to know. Good job.”
“Thanks.” Alex was a few years older than me, attractive in a boy-next-door way. Cute. Nice.
Not my type.
“I was thinking, maybe later we could grab a drink or something.”
I blinked, lifting my half-full glass and nodding at his own. “Isn’t that what we’re doing?”
“Right, of course.” He tendered a shy smile. “I just meant, you know, later on. Maybe just us.”
Oh, hell no.
It wasn’t poor Alex with his tentative advances that made my stomach drop. It was the couple at the other end of the room. A woman with hair the same white blond as mine, the man at her side wearing a Savile Row tuxedo accentuating his straight spine and broad shoulders.
I stepped closer to Alex, maneuvering him so that he blocked their line of sight, forced a blazing smile onto my lips. “Could I tempt you into that cozy drink right now?”
God, I was a coward. But as gorgeous as my Hervé Léger dress was, it was nowhere close to the suit of armor required for a face-to-face meeting with my parents.
Tristan
Reina was nowhere to be seen. At last glance she’d been talking to Alex, an analyst barely a year out of the same training program Reina was in now, but I’d lost track of her at least half a dozen handshakes ago. Blatantly ignoring my current conversation, I scanned the room yet again. They were both gone, and I didn’t like it one bit.
Quit it. Off-limits, remember?
Taking Kyle’s elbow to my ribs without flinching, I attempted to refocus my attention on the man—boy, really—who had just sold his app development company for half a billion dollars. From the looks of his skin, more acne than facial hair, I wasn’t sure if he was old enough to legally drink from the glass in his hand. The last thing I wanted was to feign interest in this child’s harebrained investment schemes. There was only one place I wanted to be. Only one person I wanted to be with. Was she with someone else? Fuck off-limits.
So what if I wanted to spend the night with Reina rather than glad-handing everyone in the room? Millennial wasn’t a one-man operation, and it wasn’t going to fail just because I chose to spend the night with the most intriguing, gorgeous woman I’d ever laid eyes on. Fucking Reina, even if she was my employee, didn’t mean that I would fuck over my investors.
“Excuse me.” I squeezed the boy wonder’s shoulder, grinning as if we were old friends, and stepped away. Let Kyle get his hands on the tech geek’s money, I needed to get my hands on Reina. And so help me, if Alex had even touched her—
“Slow down there, son. Where’s the fire?”
Gerald Van Horne’s booming voice stopped me in my tracks. “Gerry.” I extended my hand, forcing a smile onto my face. “Good to see you. I just had a sit-down with Wendy the other day.”
“Yes, I saw that.” He chuckled. “She always had a knack for digging in the dirt, that one.”
I conceded the point. “Luckily there wasn’t much for her to find.”
“Just wait, you’re young yet,” Gerald insisted. “Not many of us in this business can stay clean for long.”
I wasn’t sure if he was talking about personal scandals or shady dealings, but assumed he probably meant both. He’d weathered quite a scandal in his personal life a few years ago when he’d filed for divorce from his first wife. She hadn’t gone quietly, contesting their prenup and suing for half ownership of his company, full custody, and most of their accumulated real estate. In the end, his ex took the kids and over a hundred million in cash—but not before the two slung so much mud they were both covered in it. He’d since remarried, although I’d only met his second wife in passing.
Wall Street society was an insular one, and they didn’t take kindly to their secrets being exposed. Van Horne had been forced to testify before Congress, more than once, regarding suspicious investments at Bull Capital, and he’d been party to other questionable deals over the course of his career. But with a net worth north of a billion dollars, a wallet the size of Van Horne’s could buy a lot of forgiveness.
“You’re probably right, but I’m going to give it my best shot.”
He grunted. “I hear you’re doing well. Your father must be proud.”
“Thank you.”
“That fund of yours, you’ve posted some pretty impressive returns.”
“We’re
pleased with how Millennial has fared in the current market. Our lock-up’s due to expire and we’re looking to grow our assets under management. But it’s looking good so far,” I said.
“It’s an important time for you, then. Too many funds don’t make it past a year. And what’s this I hear about your father looking to get out of the business?”
I had an uncomfortable feeling that Van Horne knew much more about Millennial than he was letting on. Ditto my father’s plans for Bettencourt. I kept my cards close to my vest. “You’ll have to talk to him about that. But no one’s planning his retirement party yet, that’s for sure.”
“He’s a good man, your father. I’ve always enjoyed our friendly rivalry. But I’ll tell you one thing: they’re going to have to drag me out of my office in a hearse.”
This was probably the longest conversation I’d ever had with Gerald, and I decided to redirect it. “How’s Bryce doing? Have you managed to get him off the ice and into your boardroom yet?” I’d worn the same jersey as Van Horne’s son in boarding school and we’d been friends well before that. Against his father’s wishes, Bryce had joined the NHL after graduating college, rather than exchange his skates for a pair of wingtips.
Van Horne chuckled. “Not quite yet, although maybe you can convince him. His shoulder’s been acting up, so he’s going to be in New York soon to see a specialist.”
“Oh, sorry to hear that.” Bryce was known for his vicious body checks, and unfortunately it didn’t surprise me at all that his shoulder was acting up.
“Don’t be. I’m hoping they’ll tell him his hockey career is over so he can actually do something useful with his life.”
