by Tara Leigh
Reina groaned, in pleasure, I hoped. “Yes, damn you. I do. Get your personal life above board so investors can focus on your business. . . . mmmmm . . . successes.”
I scooped Reina up by her waist and settled her onto her knees without missing a beat. “Once we get back to New York, we’re going to have to figure things out. Sneaking around isn’t my thing.” Of course, neither was unprotected sex or serious relationships. But Reina was different than any woman I’d ever met, and cheapening what we had by only seeing her behind closed doors, limiting our contact to office exchanges and booty calls . . . It just felt wrong.
Her shout of laughter fizzled as I leaned forward and cupped her breasts in my hands, rolling her nipples between thumb and forefinger.
“Let’s just make the most of our time away,” she said.
Great, a noncommittal commitment. Reading between the lines, I knew what she was implying—that this was temporary, a fling. A damn showmance. And maybe it was—for her. But not for me. I’d always played offense, but Reina was pushing me back against the goal. How could I convince her that we had something special, something worth fighting for, if she didn’t believe it too? But as long as I was in the game, I played to win. “You know it’s not going to be enough, don’t you?”
I interpreted her hiss as a yes.
Reina
My phone buzzed just as I set down the blow dryer. One minute earlier and I might not have heard it, but unfortunately it was halfway to my ear before a glance at the name displayed on the screen told me I should have sent it to voicemail. My mother’s calls were a weekly ordeal, and usually left me feeling ambushed. A few hours ago I’d been safely cocooned within Tristan’s arms, but now I was back in my hotel room, bathroom actually, wrapped only in a towel. The woman who’d left me without a second thought and what seemed like no regrets was the last person I wanted to talk to right now.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Hi, sweetheart. How are you?”
I grimaced at the term of endearment my mother casually threw my way. That was how it had been since the day she walked out of my life and into Van Horne’s. Lots of darlings and sweethearts, too few hugs and kisses. She hadn’t come with me to pick out a prom dress, or to help me settle into my college dorm. I’d never been invited to any of the homes she shared with Van Horne, although I’d seen all of them on the pages of Architectural Digest, Elle Decor, or various aspirational websites that gushed over the tiniest detail. And she didn’t call at all if he was nearby.
“I’m good, just working a lot.”
“On a Sunday?”
I ignored her. She would have preferred I graduate from school with an MRS rather than a BS. But as far as I was concerned, she’d forfeited the right to criticize my choices, any of them. “How about you, what are you up to?”
“Traveling again. San Francisco this time.”
“Visiting more friends?” Like an entire ballroom of people who would give you half of a broken heart necklace, each side proclaiming BFFs Forever, if it meant getting into your husband’s good graces? These days, I wasn’t even on my mother’s Christmas card list, but because of Van Horne, she would never be short of friends.
“Something like that, although it really is lovely here.” Her voice was light, casual. I pictured her sitting on a settee with a cup of tea at her side, half a dozen spa brochures spread out in front of her, idly deciding between a full body massage with hot stones and eucalyptus oil or an ionized mud wrap with aromatherapy treatment.
The jilted daughter in me couldn’t help baiting her. “I’ve heard it’s a really romantic city.”
“Really? Hmmm, I hadn’t noticed. But the weather is lovely today, and I can see the Golden Gate Bridge from my window.”
I poked my head out of the bathroom. Yep, so could I. “You’re not heading home soon?”
“Not until tomorrow.”
We were staying in San Francisco through Monday, which meant I might have to avoid her for the next twenty-four hours. “I was just thinking a trip to the West Coast would be nice. Where are you staying?” Goose bumps raced along my forearms as I waited for her answer.
The name she mentioned barely registered with me, it could have been Alcatraz. But it wasn’t the same hotel I was in. Relieved, I sagged against the marble tiled wall. “Okay, Mom, have a nice day with your friends in San Francisco. Safe flight home.”
“Bye, sweetheart.”
As always, I hung up the phone feeling slightly let down, like a sad balloon that couldn’t quite reach the ceiling anymore. I don’t know what hurt more—that she’d chosen Van Horne over me, or that she had never quite severed the ties between us. Maybe if she’d left and never looked back, the scab would have healed. But with each call, each sweetheart, she picked at it just enough that I could never throw out the damn Band-Aid.
CHAPTER TWELVE
@BettencourtBets: Will what happened in San Francisco stay in San Francisco? Maybe not. Stay tuned!
Tristan
I stared at the Bettencourt crest hanging above my bed, the one that had sent Reina running the first night we met, wondering what the last few weeks would have been like if I’d elected to get us a room at the Four Seasons rather than bringing her back to my apartment that night. What would have happened once we came face-to-face in the conference room on Monday morning? Speculation was a pointless exercise, one I rarely indulged in, but everything about my relationship with Reina felt precarious and open to interpretation. I was used to dealing with risk and uncertainty at work, but in my personal life, I wasn’t a fan.
Being on the road together, away from the office, away from friends and family obligations, had been good for us. The two weeks had passed in a blur of presentations, meetings, meals on the go, and long, drawn-out lunches and dinners, the bar tab easily double or triple the cost of the food.
And sex. Lots and lots of sex. The kind of sex that would have made my horny, adolescent self cream in his pants . . . and then tilt his head in amazement at the variety of configurations two humans were capable of.
So yeah, it was a rewarding trip in more ways than one, but I was glad to be home. I’d spent the day in the office, catching up on everything that hadn’t been urgent enough to deal with while I was away. But the markets seemed calm, even for a Friday, and now I was home.
Waiting for Reina to arrive.
She hadn’t reversed her position that we’d only be together on the road. And truthfully, I wasn’t even sure she’d show up tonight. Hoping for the best, there was takeout from my favorite neighborhood restaurant waiting in the kitchen, along with a server from their staff to make it look like I hadn’t just ordered takeout for the first night Reina and I spent together that didn’t involve furtively sneaking down the hall and ducking into each other’s rooms, fingers crossed that no one would see us.
I selected a Pinot Noir to go with our dinner, plus a Sauvignon Blanc in case Reina preferred white. And as I lit the candles that had been placed on my table by whomever had decorated the apartment before I moved in, I couldn’t help but shake my head. I didn’t do this. I didn’t do cozy dinners at home. Not the kind with wine and candles and—Shit. I’d forgotten the flowers.
Of course, I had never dated a woman who refused to be seen in public with me, either. There was nothing sleazy about Reina, or my feelings for her. It bugged me that going public with our relationship wouldn’t be good for either one of us. A few years ago, maybe no one would have noticed. But my profile was higher now that I was actually managing millions of other people’s money, and when my name made the gossip rags, people noticed. Other fund managers noticed. Potential clients noticed. And that awful Twitter account sure as hell noticed—and then spread the word to everyone who hadn’t.
But sneaking around wasn’t the answer. There had to be a way to take the sleaze factor out of our relationship. I had enough gay friends to know that he only thing that grew in closets was mold. Surely there were more interesting things to gossip about than
that I was dating a woman ten years my junior. The larger issue was probably that I was her boss, a situation I was more than willing to remedy.
The doorbell rang before I could figure out how to convince Reina that something had to give, and soon. I opened the door to find her in a hoodie and jeans, a baseball cap pulled low over her forehead. Clearly she was taking the cloak-and-dagger aspect of our relationship seriously. “Reina? Is that you under there?” I bent down, peering beneath her brim.
Her smile was the only part of her face I could see. “Let’s go Mets.”
“You’re wearing a University of Michigan hat.”
“Oh. Whoops. I don’t know their slogan.”
I swept the hat off her head and pulled Reina into my chest, kissing her as if it hadn’t been just twelve hours since the last time. As if I hadn’t been fantasizing all day about everything I was going to do to her mouth, her breasts, her deliciously tight pussy. I took my time, holding back until I felt her hands curve around my neck and pull me down closer. Our tongues slid against each other, thrusting and parrying until I was filled with the taste of her. I was beginning to realize that I might never get enough of kissing Reina. As I pulled away, I bit softly on her lower lip, just hard enough to hear her groan. “Me neither.”
I enfolded Reina’s hand in mine, taking pleasure at her initial stumble, hoping I made her feel as off-balance as she did me. She followed me inside, and I watched her eyes sweep over the table, the wine, the food, even the server hovering near the kitchen.
“Um . . .”
“You told me we couldn’t be seen in public. But you didn’t say we couldn’t have a decent date.”
“So, we’re dating now?”
“If you want to be two people just fucking each other as frequently as possible, fine.” I gestured toward the table. “But at least sit down, have a glass of wine, enjoy your dinner.”
A fire in her eyes sparked, caught flame. “Save the fucking for after dessert?”
I handed her a glass, lightly clinking its rim with my own. “The fucking is dessert.”
Reina
Tristan’s voice pooled in my ear like warm honey. Dessert had never sounded so good.
And yet I hesitated. I could do dessert. I could probably do dessert all night, every night, for as long as I lived. But the rest of it?
My eyes swept over our surroundings—not just the beautifully set table and delicious-smelling food, but the twelve-foot ceilings and walls hung with original art. Tristan himself was wearing jeans that probably cost more than the most extravagant purchase I’d ever made (Hervé Léger dress notwithstanding). What the hell was I doing here, in his luxurious penthouse? I shouldn’t have come. I’d told Tristan that what transpired while we were away wouldn’t—couldn’t—continue at home. And yet here I was. Completely out of my league.
It had been a while since my last boyfriend, and while I had the occasional sloppy make-out session in a dark bar, I inevitably went home to my vibrator and an empty bed. I didn’t get seduced by hedge fund heirs in their luxe Manhattan lofts, men who thought nothing of ordering a waiter to go with their takeout.
As tall as the ceilings were, they were pressing down on my head. All of this was as unfamiliar to me as mother-daughter spa days or playing hooky from school. For as long as I could remember, the only person I could count on was me. My parents, all three of them, had never really been there. Not physically, not emotionally. If there was something I wanted, I planned, I worked, I saved, I strategized . . . and I got it my own damn self.
I fumbled for something to say, some sentence that would lead to a quick exit with no hard feelings, until I made the mistake of lifting my eyes to Tristan’s, drinking in the look on his face. It was an expression I’d never seen on anyone before. Like he wanted to please me. Treat me. Surprise me.
Maybe even love me.
And, goddammit, that look was so seductive it should have been banned in all fifty states and in Canada, too. Because it was working. I was being seduced. By it, by him, by all of it. I was falling. Hard. For Tristan Xavier Bettencourt. The fucking fourth.
The first night we met, he’d been just a guy. An irresistibly gorgeous guy. Then at the office, he’d been a brilliant mentor, much more focused and driven than I would have expected anyone who didn’t actually need to work could be. And while we were away, he’d proven to be an exciting and passionate lover. There was no part of me he hadn’t touched, or kissed. And I could say the same of him.
But now, tonight, on his home turf, the dynamic between Tristan and I shifted once again. This wasn’t flirty banter with a sexy stranger. This wasn’t an interview. This wasn’t a clandestine romp. This was a date.
I pulled my gaze away from his, wondering if it was possible to get vertigo from staring into a pair of eyes as deep and blue as the ocean. I was in Tristan’s world tonight, and even though it felt like I was trespassing, I’d been invited.
Well, not exactly invited, more like tugged through his door before I’d realized what was actually waiting for me inside. And now that I was here, it scared me to admit it, but there was no place on earth I’d rather be. Tristan’s world was a place where no one denied your paternity. A place where your last name was celebrated. A world of legacies and family traditions, not secrets and shadows.
Most importantly, there was love in Tristan’s world. I could see it in the way he spoke about his father, and his passion for Bettencourt and his employees. Tristan had a generous heart.
I gulped at the wine, choked. Suddenly this wasn’t a game. The sneaking around, the wealthy heartthrob with the name I couldn’t even say in one breath. The family ties that started with French nobility and ended with Wall Street royalty. Here, the barriers to entry were too high, at least for someone like me—someone whose biological father would lay a hand on the Bible and deny any knowledge of my existence rather than allow the mere fact of my birth to tarnish his reputation.
I opened my mouth, intending to spill all the ugly truths clogging my throat.
And then I caught my reflection in the cobalt mirror of Tristan’s eyes. The woman he thought I was. The woman I wanted to be. She was composed and mature, and not flustered in the least by tonight. By a date. This woman went on dates all the time, was used to men doing nice things for her, treating her as if she was the most important person in their life. She would sip politely at her wine, fold the napkin in her lap, and take the evening in stride.
Surely I could be her for at least a few hours. If the scales of justice were at all even, I’d earned it.
I closed my mouth, trotted out my best impression of a Mona Lisa smile, and sat. “This is nice. Thank you.” The past couple of weeks had just been a collection of stolen moments. Maybe what I really needed was a whole night, maybe two. For one weekend I could dance and play and stomp on Tristan’s grass that looked a hell of a lot greener than my own.
It couldn’t be as lush and well-tended as it appeared, right? Maybe it would turn out to be like the kind they had in California and Arizona. Dead, brown grass that was sprayed with green paint because there was a drought going on and no one was allowed to waste water on tending their lawn. Then I could chalk up my time with Tristan to a very thorough sex ed course. By now, I could probably write the textbook.
Tristan sat down across from me, the server hastening to dole salad onto our plates.
“So, what are we having?”
“Well, I’m having steak. But I’ve never seen you eat red meat so I ordered you the striped bass. You had it twice while we were away, I thought it was a safe choice.”
I nodded, feeling like a sap for my stinging eyes. Tristan noticed what I ate? The only thing a guy had ever seemed to notice about me was my cleavage. “Thanks,” I said. “But you didn’t need to make such an effort.” I managed to close my mouth before the words for me escaped. But they hung in the air anyway, an unsightly cobweb suspended between us.
“I don’t think of it like that.”
“Like what?”
“It’s not an effort if it’s something I want to do. You’re just going to have to get used to it, Reina. Because I like doing things for you. I like watching your eyes widen and then go all soft on me. I like seeing you surprised, and I love seeing you happy.” Tristan stabbed a piece of lettuce, put it in his mouth and leaned back in his chair. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you that you’re worth making an effort for?”
I fought the urge to look around. Was there some sort of script Tristan was reading from—a big placard with instructions on what to say to make a girl fall in love with him? Or did he really believe them? I came to his place tonight, red lace bra, g-string, even thigh highs and garters on beneath my sweatshirt, jeans, and worn Converse sneakers. I’d expected to be naked by now. Instead I was desperately trying to choke down mesclun greens and a conversation so poignant it should have come with a box of tissues.
I put down my fork, played with the edge of my napkin. “Actually, no. No one ever has, until tonight. Until you.”
Tristan studied me from across the table. My mask was down, the protective armor I’d forged myself and worn for too many years to count lying crumpled and useless on his doorstep. I had nothing to protect me, and nowhere to hide. I was as exposed and vulnerable as I’d ever been.
The weight of his gaze held me in place, kept me from jumping up and running fast and far. Tristan didn’t offer any more assurances or pithy compliments. One corner of his mouth curved upward just slightly. A smile, but a sad one.
“That’s a damn shame,” he said.
Tristan was right. It was a shame. My whole damn life was shameful. And not just because of the way I’d been conceived. I had made plenty of wrong choices, all on my own.
Regret hardened in my bones like cement. Regret that I’d shared my body casually, given it away to men who hadn’t treated me with the kind of reverence Tristan had exhibited since our very first kiss. He wasn’t weak, or so sweet that he gave me a toothache. Tristan was just . . . solid. Honest. And either incapable or plain unwilling to do anything half-assed. He didn’t just have sex with my body. He devoured all of me.
