by Tara Leigh
I shot Reina a look that told her exactly what I thought of her protests. She had been working hard, too, and a short break would be as good for her as it would be for me. “We’re going. Both of us.”
Swallowing whatever excuse was next on her list, she glanced around the room, taking in the number of ears privy to our conversation. “Can we talk for a minute?” It was more statement than question, but I followed Reina into my office. She positioned herself by the window, and from the hunch of her shoulders I knew she wasn’t taking in the view. Only after the door clicked shut did Reina spin back toward me. “Are you sure you want me to come with you? I don’t want to intrude.”
I curled my hands into fists at my sides to keep from crossing the room and wrapping my arms around her. Could my feelings for Reina have been highlighted by the tumult going on at work? Possibly. But I’d never felt so sure about anyone in my life. “You’re not an intrusion, Reina. You’re a part of my life. A big part. I need you to understand that.”
Reina’s eyebrows arched upward. “With everything that’s going on, and just a few days before Millennium’s lock-out expires? Are you really sure? I won’t be offended if you would rather I stay at the office, really.”
“We went out together over the weekend and it didn’t make news. As scandals go, we’re a complete dud.” My feet propelled me a few feet closer before I stopped myself. I searched her emerald eyes for glints of gold but they were dark, overshadowed by doubt. “Reina, Bryce is a friend, and I want you to meet him. Is that really so wrong?” There had to be a way to put those doubts to rest. Maybe it was too much to ask Reina to go public with our relationship. Dating a Bettencourt came with a set of expectations most women were only too eager to adopt. But Reina seemed to have forged her own rules, and I wasn’t sure if being known as IVy’s girlfriend would be too stifling for her. Which was why I hadn’t actually asked, just tossed out the epithet and hoped for the best.
While Reina powered off her computer and grabbed her bag, I stopped at Kyle’s desk. “Have you heard anything from Tech?” Earlier, I’d asked him to brief our Technology and Security specialists. Wall Street was as incestuous and insular as a small Appalachian town, only with a combined worth that exceeded the GDP of most developed countries. Secrets and petty resentments were passed back and forth like stolen cigarettes between teenagers. Information was closely guarded, and even more valuable than cash. As much as it pained me, I was beginning to think Van Horne had a spy within Bettencourt, possibly someone on my own team. I didn’t know yet if it was the same person behind BettencourtBets, but I’d like nothing better than to kill both birds with one bullet. And if they were stupid enough to leave a trail of electronic breadcrumbs, I needed to know. Fast.
“Not yet, but I expect to hear something soon. They’re pulling email and phone records for everyone on our team. Once we’re cleared, they’ll work on the rest of the Bank. If there’s a spy, they’ll find him. Whatever Bull Capital is planning, we won’t let it be an inside job.”
I nodded, feeling the tightness in my jaw. “Call me the second you hear anything.”
“Will do, boss.”
Reina was waiting for me by the elevator. “You look like you could use a scotch.”
For the first time that day I laughed. “Among other things.”
Even with what felt like the weight of the world on my shoulders, I couldn’t resist the sight of Reina leaning against the back wall of the elevator. Without making a conscious decision, suddenly my arms were wrapped around her neck, my hands pulling out the pins holding her hair back, fingers threading into its lush depths. A muted warning ding gave me just enough time to swirl my tongue around the racing pulse point on her neck, wedging my thigh into the tight apex between her legs for the briefest of moments before pulling away. The doors slid open just as her disgruntled moan was fading.
Other than the hair curling around her flushed face in wild abandon, Reina looked irritatingly unruffled as her heels clicked on the marble tiles, keeping pace with me. Unruffled enough to repeat a question I thought we’d settled. “Are you sure we should be doing this again? Ceilo’s isn’t brunch at a sidewalk café. What if we run into more of your friends? Not just childhood ones, but colleagues too. Millennial is doing so well, you have to have pissed off others besides Van Horne. Maybe not everyone is looking to take over the company, but dethroning you might net them some of your investors.”
I was too worn out to take her concerns seriously. “Yes, I’m sure. You want to know why?”
“Why?”
“Because shit happens. Yesterday Millennial was set to become one of the most successful funds in Bettencourt’s roster, and today it might go bust and take Bettencourt down with it. Hopefully tomorrow we’ll be an industry leader again. My point is, I can’t control the market. And I can’t control Van Horne or anyone else. But I can sure as hell control my own actions. I’m not ashamed of you, or of our relationship. If there’s fallout, we’ll deal with it. But I’m through sneaking around.”
Reina grabbed my arm, stopping us in the middle of the street, prompting irritated looks from everyone forced to go around us. I didn’t care.
“Tristan, you should be dating someone suitable, someone who’s good for your image.” She shook her head, a panicked expression on her face. “When Elise saw the two of us together, she thought less of you because you were with me. You don’t understand. I’m not worth all this trouble.”
I stepped closer, wanting nothing more than to take her in my arms and kiss her until she stopped talking, stopped thinking about what was good for me and started planning for an us. “First of all, fuck Elise. And second, how do you do that?”
Reina frowned. “Do what?”
“Make me want to strangle you and kiss you at the same time. They should be mutually exclusive options.” She met my gaze in silence, knowing if she cracked a smile I would win our quarrel. I continued anyway. “Until today I only had one thing in my life worth fighting for. But now I have two, and I’m not willing to lose either of them. Am I clear? I will not lose you.”
Tears welled up in her eyes. “Well then, you’re a fool.”
I shrugged. “I’ve been called worse.”
Reina’s soft sigh of capitulation warmed the skin of my neck as her hands slipped inside my jacket, pulling me close. “I’ve never been upstairs at Ceilo’s. Any chance there’s a dark corner somewhere . . .”
I tilted her chin upward, brought my lips down on hers, ignoring the mix of appreciative and irritated looks from pedestrians walking by. “There’s lots of dark corners.”
“We probably only need one, Tristan.”
I deepened the kiss. A dark corner had never sounded so good. Although I was considering a pit stop at my apartment instead. The air was crisp, and Reina was so warm in my arms. My cock was butting up against my zipper again, and losing the battle. With a groan I broke away, leading her to the edge of the sidewalk and extending my hand. “Come on. If we don’t get going, I’m going to need a dark alley.”
Reina
I could have stayed encircled within Tristan’s arms forever. He was willing to fight for me, for us. But coward that I was, I didn’t have it in me to meet any more of Tristan’s ex-girlfriends, not today. And as for meeting his friends—did Bryce Van Horne have to be the first? Talk about being thrown into the deep end. Would he be anything like his sister? God, I hoped not. I could probably withstand about two and a half minutes before a shovel struck the box of secrets I’d buried as deep as I could. Which is to say, not that deep.
Tonight, I felt like a teddy bear ripped down the middle, my belly a riot of torn stitches and exposed stuffing. Meeting Bryce might spell the end of my time with Tristan. But half or not, he was still my brother. Wasn’t he worth the risk?
After my mother married Van Horne, I had spent every free minute for weeks, maybe months, studying the faces of my siblings in any magazine that had covered the wedding. Comparing their features to mine, tryin
g to read their expressions. Were they happy about the marriage? Did they love my mother? The photos certainly made it seem as if they were, and they did. The images were toxic—stinging my eyes, burning my fingertips as I ran them over the pages. My stomach churned with jealousy as I stared at Wendy—Gwendolyn back then—Bryce, and Celeste. I hated them because my mother had chosen them over me. But over time, I ached for the opportunity to know my siblings.
Questions swirled through my mind like glitter trapped inside a shaken snow globe. Would Bryce recognize me as his stepmother’s daughter, the one she hadn’t loved enough to bring with her when she moved into their father’s world? Would he despise me as much as Wendy did?
But most importantly, what would Tristan think when he found out the truth? My truth?
Meeting Bryce would probably put a timer on our relationship, and I wasn’t ready for us to end. Not yet. None of Tristan’s new guy shine had rubbed off after our weekend together. His side of the lawn was still every bit as lush and green as it appeared. Had Tristan not summed up his reasons for despising Elise, I wouldn’t be in this position right now.
A liar. A social climber. A woman who doesn’t know the first thing about the meaning of family.
Every word Tristan used to damn her could just as easy be applied to me. I had lied to him, several times. Baldly, to his face, and through omission. Social climbing, guilty as charged. Although my biological father refused to acknowledge me or give me his name, here I was, in his backyard, fighting like hell to make it, on my own, on Wall Street. And family—that was a laugh. What the hell did I know about family? Nothing good.
No, if not for Elise’s arrival and Tristan’s admission, I would have steeled myself with that second Bloody Mary and spilled all my secrets. And either I’d be here right now with nothing left to hide, or I’d be at home, throwing a pity party for one with french fries and Häagen Dazs.
Moments ago, Tristan’s voice had been a cashmere blanket, soothing my nervous jitters. What would disdain sound like? I didn’t want to know. I loved him, even though the four-letter word made me cringe. I’d fallen so damn deep, so damn fast. And, heaven help me, I didn’t want to get up.
Paralyzed by indecision, I let Tristan lead me into the cab, marveling all the while at his ability to get everyone around him to do his bidding. He called Kyle as we made our way uptown, and I listened with half an ear as I pulled the few remaining pins out of my top knot. My mother’s hair was usually up these days, so the more I could do to look different from her, the better.
He slid the phone back in his pocket minutes before the cab pulled to the curb. “Ready?”
No. Let’s go back to the office, back to your place, anywhere but here. I plastered a tight-lipped smile on my face. “Of course.”
Tristan’s confident grin wasn’t even a distant relative of my forced bravado. Did nothing throw this man? Even news that his precious Millennial Fund was in play, and Bettencourt itself at risk, hadn’t seemed to dent his armor.
We headed straight for the curving staircase that dominated the main dining space. It was guarded by two behemoths wearing three-piece suits and molded earpieces, a black velvet rope hanging between them. I would have dragged my feet if not for Tristan’s hand at my back. But one look at Tristan (seriously, I was beginning to think there was an aura around the man that told maître d’s, bouncers, and bartenders he’d been born with an all-access pass) and they unclasped the rope, stepping aside with military precision.
This was my last chance. My last chance to take Tristan aside, tell him the truth about the connection I had with the Van Hornes before someone else did it for me. Let him decide for himself if my parentage, my illegitimacy, mattered to him. I didn’t think so, but what if I was wrong? And even if Tristan didn’t care whether I’d been abandoned in a forest and raised by wolves, what if his father did? Growing up Bettencourt was all about image and responsibility and legacies. What if he wasn’t too keen on his only son dating Van Horne’s bastard? Would he blame me for Bull Capital’s not-so-veiled takeover attempt?
Tristan might not realize how lucky he was to have a close relationship with his father, but I did. And I would never want to cause even a moment of tension between them.
Halfway up the stairs, I tripped. And in that brief second, there was something that mattered much more to me than my DNA.
My pride.
I gave a little screech, throwing my arms out for both railings like a cat destined for the bath. But my hands only closed around Tristan. He trapped me, spun me around and held me to his chest, feet dangling several inches above the perilous stairs. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a flash.
“Making an entrance?” Tristan asked me.
“Apparently so. Sorry about that.”
Tristan was in no hurry to put me down. “Highlight of my night, so far.”
“Really? I’m sure I can top that.” My eyes fluttered shut as I closed the few remaining inches between us. Our first public outing had gone completely unnoticed. Maybe Tristan was right: As scandals went, we were a bust. Might as well go for broke.
The kiss lasted just long enough to send tingles from the top of my spine to the toes I’d scrunched into the pair of Louboutins I scored at my favorite consignment store. With a soft sigh, I slid down Tristan’s length until I was standing on my own two feet again. Buoyed as I was by the overheated oxygen racing though my bloodstream, the remaining stairs could have been made of marshmallows.
And then we were at the top, in another room that looked nothing the one below. Dimly lit, this was a multi-tiered space with banquettes and standalone tables surrounding a DJ booth and dance floor. It was still early. The DJ was spinning sexy, slow tempo songs, no one ready to dance just yet.
A tall, sandy haired man popped up. “X-Man!” he yelled.
I turned to Tristan. “X-Man?”
He grinned. “Locker room nickname, just wait till you hear Bryce’s.”
Bry, Bree? Those were probably too tame for guys that got off on slamming each other into steel reinforced boards. I tagged along after Tristan.
“Horny!” he yelled as we got closer.
I nearly choked. Of course they would use a derivative of Van Horne. The two met in a chest bump that included aggressive, one-handed back thumping.
I caught Bryce’s wince as our eyes met over Tristan’s shoulder, but it was gone in an instant, replaced with an unabashed head-to-toe appraisal of yours truly. If Bryce hadn’t been my brother, he would have taken my breath away. He was a few inches taller than Tristan, at least six foot three, maybe six four. His hair was shaggy, easily long enough to escape from his hockey helmet in a sweaty fringe. The button-down shirt he wore barely stretched over his broad shoulders, and if I had to guess, the one that Tristan just thwacked wasn’t feeling so good right now.
“It’s about time you came back to Gotham.” A grin stretched across Tristan’s face, all of today’s tension vanishing in an instant.
“I wish I didn’t need to, but seeing you almost makes it worthwhile.” Bryce glanced my way again. “And who’s this?”
Tristan gathered me close to his side, hooking his arm around my waist. “This is Reina St. James.”
Now it was my turn to wince. Did Bryce know his stepmother’s last name had been St. James? I extended my hand. “Just Reina, please.”
“Nice to meet you, Just Reina.”
Bryce’s hand dwarfed mine, and I was grateful he didn’t crush it. “Come sit with us.” He rattled off a bunch of names, gesturing at the other people surrounding him. Decanters of alcohol and mixers were scattered on the tabletop, along with several ice buckets strategically placed within reach. A waitress appeared at my side and I asked for a glass of sparkling water.
Bryce laughed. “What kind of girls are you dating these days, X?”
I bristled. “The kind that might have to go back to the office because your—”
Tristan interrupted. “You can take the night off, Reina. Come on.
I want you to have fun. No talk of work tonight.”
I closed my mouth. Reading between the lines, it was clear that Tristan didn’t want to involve Bryce in his fight against Bull Capital. Minutes later, I was holding a flute of champagne as the waitress went off in search of a suitably aged scotch for Tristan. In the back of my mind, I knew I should sip it slowly. But I was nervous, and I already had my hackles up. The first glass went down fast, and when the waitress came back with Tristan’s drink, she refilled my empty.
While they talked, I enjoyed the view—and I don’t mean Ceilo’s. Bryce and Tristan might have come from similar backgrounds, but they were as different as St. Barts and St. Moritz. Both expensive, exclusive, and centuries-old destinations for the uber-wealthy and ultra-fabulous. But one required fur-lined parkas and skis to brave majestic peaks, the other practically demanded skinny-dipping in translucent aquamarine waters. Tristan was smooth and sleek, still water that ran deep. Bryce, I could already tell, was hot headed and brash.
“So what are you doing here? Your dad said something about your shoulder?”
“Yeah, I was hoping I didn’t need surgery but apparently you can only take cortisone shots and painkillers for so long before your kidney cries uncle. I’m seeing a specialist tomorrow.” An emaciated blonde, probably younger than me, curved a possessive hand around Bryce’s solid thigh, eyeing me as if I were a threat. Apparently accustomed to being fondled by beautiful women, Bryce didn’t bat an eye. “How about you? I can’t believe you’re following in your old man’s footsteps. Doing well, I hear.”
“Who’d you hear that from? I know you’re not reading any of the industry rags.”
Bryce chuckled, downed the remaining contents of his glass and reached for the decanter in front of him. And again I caught his quick wince. “My father, actually. I think he wishes you’d been born a Van Horne. Or at least that he had a kid interested in getting into the business.”
Oh, but he does. A cough exploded from my diaphragm, and I downed the rest of what was in my glass. Tristan gave me a sharp glance, probably surprised that I’d polished off two glasses in two minutes, but, gentleman that he was, poured me another. Who said chivalry was dead?
