by Tara Leigh
“I’ll do that,” he answers seriously.
A few beats pass. “You’ve never had corn on the cob, have you?”
“Never,” he admits, his laugh joining mine.
“Well, if you have the chance, don’t hesitate. Slather it with salt and butter and enjoy.”
“It’s a plan.” His lopsided smile offers a delicious flash of dimple. “And, for the record, I don’t often hesitate, Reina. About anything.”
Damn. Somehow TJ has managed to take a casual conversation about my favorite farm stand vegetable and turn it into something else entirely. I reach for sarcasm to lighten the air. “Is that like admitting you’re trigger-happy?”
What I’d intended as a casual quip emerges sounding strangled, and I pray he doesn’t notice. Out of necessity, I’ve become adept at manipulating situations to my advantage. Although my family drama could have been scripted by a bad soap opera screenwriter, I’ve hid it with hard work and a megawatt grin. But this man is testing my skills.
TJ lifts his drink to his lips. “Depends on who’s pulling the trigger.”
Chapter 2
@BettencourtBets: Place ur bet—which Bettencourt employee took home more than an auction prize last night? Hint-if this was Italy, we’d call him Quattro.
Tristan
Normally good scotch is soothing, an amber balm capable of easing any situation. But as I take a sip from my glass, my gaze fixed on Reina’s, I am anything but soothed.
There’s something about her that’s pushed me completely out of my comfort zone. Or maybe just back in time. No one’s called me TJ in years, and yet it slipped out without a second thought. Then again, it could be that damn tweet still rattling around inside my mind. I’m proud of my family’s legacy, but sometimes I wish I had my own damn name.
She comes back with another question, looking distinctly unruffled. “How about the target— Would that be a factor?”
I swallow. “No doubt. Are you offering, Reina?”
She tilts her head to the side, exaggeratedly considering. From this angle, her profile resembles a carved cameo. All smooth skin and perfectly symmetrical features. “I haven’t decided yet. But when I do, you’ll be the first to know.”
“I look forward to it.”
The lights flash, our playful banter temporarily paused by an announcement that the auction is about to begin. I glance over at the table my father purchased for $50,000 where he’s firmly hunkered down, surrounded by several senior Bettencourt employees and their wives. Two chairs remain empty, reserved for me and the date I didn’t bother to bring.
We are apparently at one of the overflow tables, kept at the outer edges of the room just in case they’re needed. Too out of the way for those with the deepest pockets, too close to the speakers for comfort. I could take Reina over to the table I’m supposed to be sitting at. And maybe I should. But I decide against it.
Reina is different than the women I usually meet at these things. Different than the women I usually meet, period. Not that she seems out of place. Far from it. Her appearance is flawless, her confidence effortless. And yet she stands out in the same way a freshly polished piece of silver is more appealing than a tarnished one. There’s no whiff of bored resignation to her. No grasping clinginess. Just a beautiful, bright-eyed freshness.
And I have absolutely zero interest in sharing her.
As if picking up on my thoughts, Reina asks, “Are you here alone? Most guys usually get dragged to these things by their dates.”
“I’m not here with anyone, but I suppose you could say my presence is out of obligation, too.”
“Let me guess,” she offers teasingly. “You’re one of the prizes being auctioned off tonight? You know, pay a fortune to spend the night with Mr. Wonderful.”
“Mr. Wonderful?” Good thing my ex isn’t here, she’d quickly set Reina straight. “I’m flattered. How much would you spend for a night with me?”
“Are you offering, TJ?” she deflects, echoing the question I asked her a few minutes ago with a trill of a laugh.
“Maybe I am.”
“Well . . . Just how wonderful are you?”
“Wonderful?” I repeat. “Hell, I’ve been called a lot of names in my life but never that one.”
“Do tell. What exactly have you been called?”
“Wouldn’t you rather find out for yourself?”
She doesn’t bite. “Not necessarily. I’m more of a research-driven shopper, actually. Better odds of getting exactly what I’m looking for.”
Before I can ask what, exactly, that is, the auction starts. It’s kicked off with a speech by my stepmother, followed by a slide show featuring children who will supposedly benefit from the money raised here tonight. I buy something, a box at the Stanley Cup I think. But it could just as easily be a behind-the-scenes tour of Versailles or a ride in the Goodyear blimp. I’ll receive the details, along with an exorbitant credit card receipt, via messenger tomorrow. It’s a credit to the auctioneers eyesight, since we’re so far back I’m surprised he noticed my raised hand.
Mostly, my focus is on Reina. My arm is now resting on the back of her chair, my fingertips brushing her skin as we make conversation between the auctioneer’s shouts and the accompanying bursts of applause for the winning bidder.
A soggy salad is followed by an inedible steak, each course accompanied by a fresh drink courtesy of my new favorite bartender, who eagerly pockets the hundred I give him every time. After pushing my plate away virtually untouched, I finally ask the question that has been bothering me all night. Every word that’s come out of Reina’s mouth leads me to believe she is older than she looks, but I need to know for sure. “How old are you?”
“How old do you think I am?”
“Oh, no.” I’ve seen too many Dateline exposés to fall for that. “I hate guessing games and don’t get my rocks off by robbing the cradle.” Never mind that my last name practically guarantees that any sleazy liaisons I engage in, unwittingly or not, will be irresistible fodder for Page Six of the New York Post. A scandal is just about the only thing I can’t afford.
Of course, that’s why I didn’t offer my last name. Had she asked, I would have. But tonight, surrounded by so many people I know and who know me, it feels like a gift to find someone that doesn’t. Tonight, with Reina, I’m not IVy. I’m not Tristan James Xavier Bettencourt, heir to a financial empire. I’m just TJ, a guy who couldn’t resist the lure of her smile.
“Twenty-five.”
That puts eight years between us, just shy of cradle-robbing territory. I can live with that.
She laughs at what I can only assume is the satisfied look on my face. “I happen to like guessing games. And since you failed to negotiate an advantageous contract, we’re going to play.”
My lips quirk. “You were spot on with The Thomas Crown Affair. Sure you want to break your streak?”
“One correct guess is hardly a streak.” Reina takes a breath, dragging a pale pink nail over her chin as she thinks. I wasn’t exaggerating when I suggested her hands were perfectly made for stealing. I bet her small palms and slim, nimble fingers could easily divest a man of his wallet, phone, or anything else she chose. Fuck, I’d like to see those hands somewhere else. “I bet I can guess your position.”
I choke on my Scotch. “Excuse me?”
“I meant from your hockey team,” she chides.
“Oh.” Our chairs are so close I can easily pick out the glints of gold in her emerald eyes, and right now they sparkle with mischief. I feel myself hardening inside my pants, which I’ve just discovered are cut slightly too close for comfort. “Sure. Have at it.”
“Definitely offense. But not center.” She leans into me, her breath warming my neck. “You’re all about strategy, identifying the weaknesses in your opponent’s defenses. You’re as much a mental player as a physical one.”
Reina sits back in her chair. “Right wing,” she says, a cat-that-ate-the-canary smile spreading across her face when she
sees from my surprised expression that she’s correct. “Now it’s your turn.”
Fuck. There is only so much a man could take. I reach out to wrap my hand around the upper frame of her chair, my wrist resting lightly on her shoulder, and lean toward her. Another two inches and I could lick the gloss off her pouty, pink lips. Close enough for Reina to push me away. Or better, close the distance between us. She does neither, instead meeting my stare head on.
“Let’s get out of here. Come back to my place.”
Reina blinks. “But we aren’t through playing our game.”
“Guessing games aren’t my thing. But games . . . actual games with a winner and a loser and something worth fighting over . . . No matter how good you think you are, I’m better. I will beat you every time. Because that’s what I do. I play to win. Against every opponent. In every game. Always.”
I pause, looking for the slightest hint of fear or hesitation in her flawless face. There is none. To hell with it.
“My favorite kind of game, however, is played skin-on-skin. And my strategy has nothing to do with weakness. To our mutual benefit, I will exploit every single nerve and pleasure center in your body. And I promise you, Reina, we’ll both win.”
I force myself to inch back, to give Reina some space in case she decides to slap me for being so forward. Not that I’d blame her. We’ve known each other for all of two hours and I’ve just openly propositioned her.
But I don’t get far before she hooks a polished fingertip beneath my bow tie and pulls me back, even closer than before. Her lips part and I watch as a glistening pink tongue sweeps slowly across them. When she speaks her voice is low and throaty, exactly how I imagine it would sound if I made her beg for release.
“Prove it.”
Reina
TJ’s gaze never wavers from my face as the hush that follows my challenge is broken by a thunderous round of applause for the winner of the last auction prize, a private dinner with the most recent Oscar-winning producer and the star-studded cast of his new blockbuster movie. As a surprise, the lead actress herself, a Hollywood bombshell by anyone’s standards, came out to spur on the bidding.
When I first noticed TJ, the attraction was undeniable. I mean, the guy is gorgeous. The way he walks through the crowd with a surefooted athletic grace, he’s clearly accustomed to being at the top of the food chain, even in a room full of Wall Street heavy-hitters. And these last few minutes have left me in no doubt of TJ’s true nature. He is one hundred percent, pure-blooded, alpha male.
There is something almost . . . predatory about him. Something that not even his silver-tongue and custom-tailored tux can disguise. The man is a wolf passing as a husky. Oh, he might let you stroke behind his ears, but you do so at the risk of losing your hand.
Worst of all, that feral instinct isn’t at all unappealing. Evidence of my arousal has drenched the wisp of lace between my thighs.
Which must be why those words shot out of my mouth.
Prove it.
Clearly I’ve lost my mind. Not only did I lie about my age, adding two years so that TJ wouldn’t pat me on my head and send me on my merry way, but I issued an ultimatum no man can back down from. Surely not the man sitting in front of me.
I broke up with my last boyfriend well over a year ago, and I’m not a nice-to-meet-you, take-me-back-to-your-place-and-let’s-get-naked kind of girl. One-night stands are not my thing. They are too unpredictable.
Tonight, though? If TJ is doing the taking, I sure as hell could be.
Could, however, isn’t the same as should.
But in the moment, those words had felt . . . right.
For years I’ve been so focused on my schoolwork and grades, on building a resume to get me in the door of Wall Street’s most prestigious firms. But I have my diploma now. And my dream job starts on Monday. Tonight feels like those hazy moments between sleep and consciousness, an interlude between fantasy and reality. I can be the kind of girl who gives ultimatums to handsome sexy strangers.
Unblinking, TJ closes the gap between our legs so that his knees hold mine captive. The hem of my cocktail dress reaches to mid-thigh when I’m standing up, but after sitting—and squirming—for a couple of hours, it’s practically indecent.
TJ is not unaware. I watch as his hands curl behind my knees, his thumb sweeping over the sensitive flesh above and below. Hands with wide palms and long, blunt fingers I can easily imagine playing sweaty games of pickup basketball, lifting weights, or shotgunning a hockey puck down the ice. Hands that tug me forward in my seat, sending a shiver of desire tapping a staccato beat along the length of my spine.
My breath falters as they move up, splaying over my thighs. Leaving just a few inches between the hem of my dress and what I know would be sure bliss. I bite down on my lower lip, wondering how far he’s willing to go in the crowded ballroom. How far I’m willing to let him.
Another inch, and I close my eyes. Everything in this room—people talking, laughing, glasses clinking, the stacking of plates—it all fades to a muted hum. There is only the pounding of my pulse, the quickening of my breath, the swoosh of blood through my veins. And TJ, whispering in my ear. “Gladly,” he purrs. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
He pushes back his chair and stands. I open my eyes to find his open palm extended toward me. I slip my beaded clutch under my arm and take TJ’s hand, his fingers curling around my wrist as he pulls me to my feet.
With his arm cinched around my waist, TJ guides me from the ballroom. Somewhere between our table and the bank of elevators, I feel the heat of an angry stare land on my face.
I purposely avert my gaze. Acknowledging Chris won’t do any good. Best to leave him behind and pretend he doesn’t exist.
I’m good at that.
TJ stands behind me on our descent to the lobby, resting his hand at the nape of my neck and toying with the zipper at the back of my dress. His chin lowers until it hovers just above my shoulder, his breath stirring the hair by my ear and sending goose bumps cascading across my skin. “I can’t fucking wait until this is just a puddle on my floor.”
I shiver as our eyes meet in the smoky glass mirror, my petite bone structure dwarfed by TJ’s imposing height and broad shoulders, my doubts smothered by the arousal and intrigue racing through my veins.
In the cool night air, I expect TJ to signal for a cab, but instead he leads me to a dark car with tinted windows parked across the street. A man gets out and opens the back door. “You have a driver?”
“Only occasionally,” he says, stepping aside so I can slide into the soft leather seats first.
Once the door is closed and the driver is back in place, he glances at TJ through the rearview mirror. “Home, sir?”
TJ looks at me. “Unless Reina prefers to be taken somewhere else.”
There’s a long beat where both men wait for my answer. A long beat where several thoughts cross my mind at once. Conflicting thoughts.
This is your out, take it! and No way—this is what you’ve wanted all night! and Let’s go on a road trip!
Yeah, I have no idea where the last one came from either.
Mesmerized by the cool ocean blue of his eyes and the warmth of our mutual desire, I shake my head. Just the tiniest movement, but it’s enough. No. I don’t want to go home alone tonight.
TJ rewards me with one of his searing grins, even his dimple winking at me, before saying, “My place.”
And then he runs his knuckle beneath my chin, holds it between his thumb and forefinger, and lowers his mouth over mine as we merge into traffic. Gently at first, as if he’s giving me space to pull away if I want to. When I don’t, his fingers thread into my hair and curve around my scalp, a groan leaving his mouth as he runs his tongue across my lips.
I tuck my hands beneath his jacket, a flood of lust washing over me as I knead the warm ridges of his muscled chest through the crisp cotton of his shirt. In this moment, nothing else matters but this kiss, this man, this moment.
/> The door opens. “We’re here,” TJ murmurs.
I step out of the car, his hand still holding mine. But the second my heels hit the sidewalk, the audacious, impetuous thread of seduction that began unspooling inside me the moment I laid eyes on TJ stills, the thread pulling taut. What am I doing?
I look up at him, blinking. Wondering if I made a mistake by ditching Chris. By believing I could spar with a man like TJ and not find myself hopelessly outmatched.
There is a world of difference between acting impulsively, even a little reckless— and being downright stupid. What do I really know about TJ? Even the space where his last name should be is blank. And just because his tie was the slightest bit askew doesn’t mean he’s unattached. Married men often keep pied-à-terre apartments in the city, a safe distance from their homes in the suburbs. Maybe they hire cars for the night, too.
“Are you married?” I have three rules, and avoiding entanglements with married men is at the top of my list. I will not follow in my mother’s footsteps. I’ve seen where they lead and I wouldn’t wish her fate, or mine, on my worst enemy.
My other two rules are: no unsafe sex, for obvious reasons. And no falling in love. I will not be lured by foolish choices and worthless promises, only to end up disappointed. I’ve had enough of that to last a lifetime.
“Me?” TJ looks incredulous, not guilty. “No. You?”
“God, no,” I spit back, possibly a little too derisively. “I’m about to start a new job. I don’t have time for a boyfriend right now, let alone a husband.”
Something that looks a little like relief passes across TJ’s face. “Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, is there anything else you want to discuss? You know—allergies, whether I like long walks on the beach, or prefer tea over coffee? My answers are no, yes, and neither, by the way.”
My lips quirk. “No, yes, no, for me.”
A lock of dark hair falls forward over TJ’s eye. “So, you don’t have time for a boyfriend. And you have zero interest in acquiring a husband.” He pushes it aside and steps close to me, one hand curving around the back of my neck as the other snakes around my waist. “What do you want, Reina?”
