Penthouse Player

by Tara Leigh

  Helluva start to the day.

  Reina

  Crap. I’d forgotten to plug my phone into the charger while I was in the shower. A quick glance at the clock told me it was too late to bother now, so I threw the charger and useless phone into my bag, along with a pair of killer heels, and stepped into the ballet flats that wouldn’t actually get me killed walking down five flights.

  I made it into Bettencourt’s lobby just as Megan, my training program coordinator, reached the elevator.

  “Oh, Reina.” Megan blinked, hands clutching a newspaper to her chest as I stepped in beside her. “What a surprise.”

  I gave her a confused look. She had checked in with me periodically throughout my weeks at Bettencourt, and we’d grabbed a quick coffee together just yesterday morning to discuss my experiences so far. “Really?” It shouldn’t have surprised her to see me walking into work.

  “I-I just thought maybe today you would—um.” The doors opened as Megan was still stuttering.

  I had to prompt her. “I would . . . what?”

  “Nothing, nothing.” She waved a hand in front of her face. “Don’t mind me. I’m sure you’re very busy. See you.” She jabbed at the buttons on the panel, clearly in a hurry to get to her own floor.

  As I walked toward the Millennial team, something wasn’t right. Everyone I passed looked as surprised to see me as Megan had. Strange, given that I was with them just yesterday.

  But nothing prepared me for the look on Tristan’s face. He was surprised too. But it was mixed with anger, and sadness.

  “Hey. What’s going on?” I glanced around at everyone near us, all busy straightening things on their desk or staring intently at various screens. Everywhere but at me.

  Tristan’s mouth opened several times before simply grabbing my arm, pulling me into his office and closing the door. “Tell me there’s a reason you’re talking to Gayle Van Horne.”

  Every minute of my commute into the office had been spent planning, in a thousand different ways, what I would say to Tristan this morning. I would lay bare all my dirty secrets. I would explain that Van Horne was gunning for him because of me. I would admit that I loved him. And then I would offer my resignation.

  Since the first night we spent together, I’d been dreading the moment Tristan would learn that I wasn’t the woman he’d picked out of a crowd. He had already taken it in stride when I turned out to be a finance geek who, quite inconveniently, was working for his hedge fund. Now he’d know just what kind of girl he was risking everything for—illegitimate, an accident, the punchline to a dirty joke. He was a value investor and I was a penny stock.

  If that had been all, I would have walked away. Or at least I would have tried. He was too good for me, and not just because of his last name. He was passionate and smart, and so damn gorgeous it twisted my stomach every time I looked at him. But more than that—he was just good. There was no pretense, no games. What Tristan Bettencourt said, he meant. And as the daughter of a man whose DNA meant less to him than a dollar bill, I owed Tristan the truth. I couldn’t let him think that I had used him . . . and certainly not to benefit the same man who wouldn’t acknowledge my existence.

  This moment had been building for too long. It was overdue, actually. And I was ready to tell Tristan everything, even if it meant losing him, even if it meant he would look at me with the same naked revulsion he’d directed at Elise. But not once had I considered that I wouldn’t be starting with a clean slate. Clearly Tristan knew something—I just didn’t know what, or how much. My slate was contaminated.

  “I can explain.” The three words spoken by cheaters the world over. Seriously, could I have reached for a more awful phrase? No wonder Tristan balked.

  “Save it. I don’t want to hear any more of your lies.”

  I grabbed his arm, clinging to him as if I were drowning. Probably because I was. “Tristan, please. It’s not what it looks like.” I could have slapped myself. I was terrified and the words springing from my lips belonged in an over-scripted soap opera.

  “Really? Because it looks like you’re not the woman I thought you were. And that our relationship, if I can even call it that, was one big lie. For fuck’s sake, even a blind man would be hard-pressed to believe you’re not working for a man trying to take down everything that’s important to me.”

  I shook my head like a dog with fleas. He was right, I wasn’t the woman he thought I was. “I’m not working for Van Horne. I swear, you have to believe me—”

  “And just what the hell happened to you last night? You might as well tell me, no? I mean, since everyone else has already read about it.”

  “Read about it? What are you taking—”

  Tristan cut in again, the hurt in his voice flaying me to the bone. “Were you too busy with Bryce to catch the tweet about your tough decision?”

  My stomach was roiling. “Tweet? No, my phone died. And I’m sorry about Bryce, really I am. I can’t believe I let things get so out of hand. It was stupid, and irresponsible. I’m really sorry if I embarrassed you with your friend.”

  Tristan stared at me as if I was speaking in tongue. “Embarrassed me? Is that what you call fucking one of my oldest friends?”

  “Wait—what? I didn’t sleep with Bryce. Gross.” I made a face.

  “Really? That’s the best you’ve got? Bryce is a lot of things, but gross isn’t usually how women describe him.”

  “I swear to you, Tristan. I wouldn’t do that, ever.”

  He walked over to his computer, tapped out a few keystrokes, and swiveled the monitor back at me. “Then what the hell is this?”

  The screen displayed two side-by-side images. One of me with Tristan, the other with Bryce. Both taken on the stairs of Ceilo’s, both showing a very smiling me with their arms around my waist. The caption read, Hedge Fund Harlot.

  I sank into the sofa. “Oh my God.”

  At this rate, Tristan probably thought of me like grime on the bottom of his shoe. Was this the risk I took by mingling with men whose names were regularly splashed across New York’s society pages? How could I have been so stupid? And then I knew. Yes, I’d been oblivious to the point of ridiculousness. But there was also someone out there just waiting for me to trip up. Literally. It was my fault. I should have known Van Horne would never let me build a career on Wall Street. As far as he was concerned, hanging out with his son must have been the final nail in my coffin. Those pictures were damning. If Tristan didn’t fire me, or I didn’t quit from shame, it would be a landmine I had to dodge on every single interview. Life on Wall Street wasn’t for the faint of heart, but this was a really low blow.

  I was the Lindsay Lohan of Wall Street.

  As mortifying as it was, though, I wasn’t quite ready to lie down and play dead. Hell no. Van Horne would not win by playing dirty.

  But he wasn’t my first priority. I would deal with Van Horne later. And I would worry about my career later, too. Right now, the person who mattered most was standing right across from me. Looking like he was a hair’s breadth away from calling security to escort me from the premises.

  I could explain, but would Tristan believe a word coming out of my mouth? Especially the four-lettered one that had been at the tip of my tongue just a few minutes ago.

  Could I have just destroyed everything I’d ever wanted, all because of too much champagne and a pair of shoes that should have required a breathalyzer?

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  @BettencourtBets: Looks like someone has a thing for Hedgies! Who has better odds-our IVy or the hockey-playing heir to Bull Capital?

  Tristan

  Reina flinched, the light in her eyes immediately extinguished by the lurid headline, then collapsed onto the seat cushion as if the weight of it was too much to bear. I wanted to believe that her reaction was simply shock, and not guilt for being caught. That the images had been grossly misinterpreted. I wanted to trust every word that came out of her mouth. But could pictures really lie? I might as well have be
en staring at her through a broken glass window, a baseball at my feet and a catcher’s mitt on her hand. “Do you want to revise your answer?”

  She shook her head, slowly. “No. You can call him, Tristan. Call Bryce. He’ll tell you that nothing happened. I swear, you have to believe me.”

  I crossed my arms. Was I an idiot to even listen to her explanation? Maybe. Probably. But Reina St. James wasn’t an easy woman to walk away from. Even now, beyond furious, beyond betrayed, even now I wanted to gather her into my arms and kiss her until the world beyond our mingled breath ceased to exist.

  Somehow I managed to stand my ground, studying her expression for any sign of deception. My gut told me Reina wasn’t lying, at least not about sleeping with Bryce. But there was definitely something she was holding back. Something she’d been keeping from me since the moment we met. Even in bed, Reina had never completely opened up to me. And I was tired of groping in the dark. The reason I couldn’t trust her was that she didn’t trust me, not yet, anyway. That had to change. Now.

  “Jesus Christ,” I said through clenched teeth. “Stop hiding behind half-truths and blatant omissions. If there’s something I should know, tell me. Mind-reading isn’t a skill I’ve mastered yet.”

  She released a pent-up breath, displacing a lock of hair that had rested on her cheek. “You know, I tried to talk to you on Sunday, before Elise showed up. And then again last night, but Bryce called. And coming in here this morning, I intended to tell you everything about me. Everything. Even knowing it would probably be the end of us. I don’t want to lie to you, or keep secrets from you. Not anymore. Only now, because I couldn’t navigate that damned set of stairs, I’m not able to tell you about it on my own terms.”

  “Make me believe you, Reina. Because I want to. Hell, I’ve never wanted anything so badly in my life. But you’ve got to meet me halfway.” Anguish lent a husky timbre to my voice. “Reina, fuck the petty bullshit. I don’t care how or why. The truth is the truth, no matter whose terms it’s on.”

  “I guess.” She bit down on her lower lip, silent for a minute before meeting my eyes. “Okay, here goes. Gerald Van Horne is my father, at least biologically. And Gayle Van Horne is really Gayle St. James Van Horne. My mother.”

  I blinked. That was the last thing I expected to hear. “What are you talking about? That’s crazy, I practically grew up with his kids. And until a month ago, I’d never heard of you.” My head felt unwieldy atop my shoulders, bulging with everything I’d learned in the past twenty-four hours—Bull Capital’s encroachment on Millennial, Van Horne’s first bite at Bettencourt, the Page Six headline . . . and now Reina’s admission. “I thought you said your father was dead.”

  “The man who raised me died when I was a senior in high school. Van Horne is my biological father. Unfortunately, he’s very much alive.”

  I struggled to connect the dots. “So, Bryce is your brother? Why didn’t he say anything yesterday?” My voice rose as anger mingled with confusion. “Were both of you lying to me?”

  “No!” The word emerged as a yelp, too pained to be a lie.

  I interrupted before she could say any more. “Why didn’t you tell me your mother was married to Van Horne?”

  “You didn’t ask. What does it matter, anyway?” Reina sputtered. “She walked out when I was barely a teenager. For years we hardly spoke at all. But ever since my dad died, out of guilt I’m sure, she calls me once a week or so. Our relationship is strained, at best.”

  “What kind of a relationship do you have with Gerald Van Horne?”

  “As far as he’s concerned, none.”

  I raked a hand through my hair. “How the fuck can I believe you?” There was no anger left in my tone, only bewilderment. Where could we go from here?

  “Bryce doesn’t know, Tristan. No one knows, except Van Horne and my mother.” Tears glistened on her fringe of eyelashes, rolling one by one down her cheeks. “And believe me, he’d deny it with his dying breath.”

  I was rooted to the floor by shock. “But why? I don’t understand.”

  I watched Reina wrestle with whether or not to tell me the whole truth, and I forced myself to stay quiet. I could live with anything, except more secrets. If she didn’t trust me enough to be honest, there was no point in continuing our conversation. Or our relationship. And I couldn’t make that decision for her.

  My heartbeat picked up as the seconds ticked by. Reina was straddling the fence, and for the life of me, I couldn’t predict which side she would choose.

  Her words emerged trembling and unsteady, as they filled the air between us. “Tristan, I’m not like you. I’m the result of a tawdry affair between Van Horne and my mother years ago. He wasn’t willing to end things with his first wife at the time. He and my mom picked up where they left off about ten years ago and he agreed to divorce his wife and marry her, but only if she left the proof of their affair—me—behind.” Reina shrugged. “So she did. I’m their dirty little secret, and it looks like I will be for the rest of my life.”

  Reina’s last sentence finally propelled me across the room and I sank into the cushion beside her, pulling her into my arms. Her story was too raw to be a lie. And knowing Van Horne, entirely plausible. “There’s nothing dirty about you, Reina. And Van Horne is a sleazy asshole.”

  She resisted my embrace, pulling back. “I was so naïve to think I could get a job in his backyard. That he’d allow me to work on Wall Street, to mingle even just slightly with his circle. I should have known, and I hate that I’ve dragged you into my mess.” Her eyes bore into mine. “What he’s doing to Bettencourt is his way of sending a warning to me.”

  I fought to wrap my head around everything Reina was telling me. There were too many points of contact, too much overlap. Reina, me, Millennial, Bull Capital, Van Horne and his three kids who I’d known my whole life. Reina’s admission was like an underground earthquake that led to a tsunami capable of destroying everything in its path. My entire life. But the origin was undeniable.

  “Profiting from revenge—it’s classic Van Horne. Except it’s not going to work this time.” I glanced toward the image still on my screen. “I’ll bet he’s behind that too.”

  “Yep. He’s found a way to sabotage Millennial, get Bettencourt on the cheap, and show me who’s boss all in one fell swoop.” She nodded. “It can’t be a coincidence that someone took photos of me at the exact time I lost my balance—twice in one night. He probably put a tail on me the day I moved to New York.”

  I nodded. Van Horne was going after Reina hard. But it was still tough to digest. “So have you ever actually met him? Ever had a conversation where he either accepted or denied your relationship?”

  “Well, I came face-to-face with him as a little girl, purely by accident, and he didn’t exactly welcome me with open arms.”

  “So then, how do you know for sure?”

  “After the father who actually raised me got sick, I ordered a kit online to test my DNA against his. It wasn’t a match, of course. But my mother told me that if I revealed the truth of my paternity, Van Horne would divorce her. And because of their prenup, she’d be left with nothing.” Reina reached for a tissue. “We don’t have much of a relationship, but she loves him. If I destroyed their marriage, she’d never forgive me. It’s just not worth it.”

  “So that’s it? Van Horne gets away with being the world biggest douchebag?”

  She smiled at me through wet, spiky lashes. “He’s done a pretty good job of fooling everyone.”

  In financial circles, Van Horne was well known for his ruthlessness, but it was a trait he shielded from public view through generous philanthropic donations and the efforts of a highly paid publicist. “So you’ve only been face-to-face with him once in your life?”

  “Actually, there was one other time.”

  “Did you deck him?”

  This earned a low chuckle. “That would have been quite the scene. He was giving the commencement speech at my graduation. Want to know what his
opening line was?”

  I sighed. “Probably not.”

  “Greed is good . . . but generosity is better.”

  Blood rushed through my veins, hot and angry. “Generosity? I guess no one ever told him that charity begins at home.”

  Reina bristled. “I’m no one’s charity case, Tristan.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just—if you don’t support the people closest to you, what difference does the rest of it make?” I placed my hand on Reina’s knee, needing the feel of her skin beneath my palm. “Aren’t you angry? Both at him and your mom?”

  “I was. For a long time I was furious. But anger is a useless emotion unless you channel it into something productive. So I used the energy it gave me to study hard, get into an Ivy League school, land a well-paying job with a prestigious company. Just because I’m not a Van Horne, it doesn’t mean I’m a nobody.”

  I laughed, my thumb swiping her bare thigh. “How could you ever be a nobody when you’re everything to me?”

  She brushed away a wayward blond strand, her voice still hesitant. “So you’re not mad at me for keeping the truth from you?”

  “A little. But I understand why you did.”

  “You don’t think I’m a social climber?”

  I rubbed at the crease in my forehead. “No, of course not. What would make you—” and then I recalled my scathing indictment of Elise. I’m such an asshole. “Reina, what I said about Elise. None of that applies to you. Not a word.”

  She shook her head sadly. “But it does.”

  “Maybe the lying part, but there’s no need for any more lies between us. You’re smart and driven, the complete antithesis of a social climber. And as for not knowing the first thing about family, you know what family shouldn’t be too well. Not the same thing.”