Penthouse Prince: A new York City Romance

by Tara Leigh

  He winks at Reina. “You’ll come again, yes?”

  “Yes, definitely.” When he heads back behind the counter, Reina asks, “Is this a New York thing I haven’t heard of before?”

  “More of a Wall Street thing. There aren’t many breakfast places around here, and when Joe realized that a lot of us work on weekends, he started opening up early and making a breakfast version of pizza.”

  Reina reaches for another slice and looks around. Joe’s pizzeria isn’t large, but every one of the tables is filled and there’s a line of people at the counter picking up their takeout orders. “Smart man.”

  “Speaking of smart, you’ve been doing a great job. We’re lucky to have you.”

  Her smile is radiant. “Thank you. I feel like I’ve been working my way toward this job since I was in middle school.”

  “Really? At that age I thought I’d grow up to become the best hockey player in the NHL . . . and win the World Series in my off seasons.”

  “I wasn’t much of an athlete.” She shrugs. “And New York City seemed like a magical place. A place where dreams could come true— even mine.”

  I look at her curiously. “I thought Disney World had the monopoly on that.”

  “Not every little girl believes in fairy tales, or wants to be a princess when she grows up.”

  “No? Don’t tell my sisters that. I’m pretty sure they think they are princesses.”

  “They are,” she says with a laugh. “Park Avenue Princesses.”

  “That’s a thing?”

  “Oh, that’s definitely a thing.”

  For a few minutes, we eat in silence. Then I ask, “What do you have against fairy tales?”

  “Besides the obvious?”

  Obvious? “The only reason I can think of is that the parents are usually killed off and the kids are left to fend for themselves.”

  Reina puts her pizza down and wipes the shiny tips of her fingers with her napkin, then begins counting off reasons. “First, the damsel in distress narrative is offensive. Women are perfectly capable of rescuing themselves. Second, marriage is portrayed as the ultimate reward, the penultimate arbiter of a woman’s worth. Third, women always seem to be stuck at home. I mean, why can’t they ever have real jobs? Fourth—”

  I interrupt. “Isn’t their job to be a princess?”

  “Yeah, but what does that mean? Hang out in the castle all day, waiting for the prince to come home from rescuing all sorts of other damsels? What kind of message does that send to little girls?”

  I squint my eyes, trying to remember the movies my sisters played on repeat when they were younger. “Wasn’t there someone who ran a bakery?”

  “The Princess and the Frog. Tiana was a waitress, with dreams of opening up her own restaurant.”

  “Yes,” I say, pleased with myself. “That’s the one. She had a real job.”

  “She was also turned into a frog, and had to choose between her prince and her dream. Tiana chose the prince, of course, because . . . Disney. But she couldn’t turn back into a person until after she married, and the prince kissed her. That’s when she became a real princess.” Reina lifts her hands and makes air quotes.

  I shake my head. “You’re kind of a buzzkill.”

  “I’d like to see a few damsels rescuing themselves, or saving Prince Charming every once in a while.”

  “Well, you can rescue me anytime.”

  Her gaze turns thoughtful, brows knitting together over the straight, sloped bridge of her nose. “And what could you possibly need to be rescued from?”

  I look down at the pizza. “Heartburn, maybe? High cholesterol, high blood pressure, high—”

  She laughs. “Okay, okay. No more breakfast pizza for you then. Green smoothies from now on.”

  I make a face. “That’s how you intend to rescue me— By killing me first?”

  “Oh, I think you’ll survive.”

  “Hopefully long enough to see you make all your dreams come true. What are they, by the way?”

  Another bright, bright smile. “World domination, of course. Or, barring that, to at least conquer Wall Street.”

  “Is that all?”

  “A girl’s gotta dream.”

  “Do you have any siblings? Or did you parents break the mold with you?”

  “Ha. Nope. It’s just me.”

  “And what do they think of your ambitions?”

  That smile, which has already dimmed, now drops entirely. “My parents are dead,” she answers, her gaze skittering away from mine.

  “I’m sorry.” I feel like a complete dick for pushing her into such sensitive territory. I want to know more, but I can’t exactly pry while we’re in a public restaurant. And yet, I can’t just drop it either. “At the risk of sounding like a sap, I bet they’re proud as fuck of you.”

  Her eyes go liquid, as green and lush as velvet. She takes a sip of orange juice, her throat working to swallow it. “Thank you, Tristan. That’s kind.”

  “Nothing kind about it. In a way, I’m envious.” I backtrack, realizing that I’ve basically shoved my entire foot in my mouth. “Not about your parents. Losing my mom was hard enough, but losing both . . .”

  “It’s okay, I know what you meant.”

  “Right.” I nod, still feeling like an idiot. “ You can be anything you want to be, you don’t have to follow in someone else’s footsteps. Or be measured against your own family.”

  “What’s it like, being the fourth?”

  “What’s it like, being the first?”

  “Touché,” Reina says, some of the sadness I noticed on her face a moment ago dissolving. She drops her napkin on her plate and leans back in her seat. “I’m stuffed.”

  “Me too, should we get back to the office?”

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  I pull a few bills from my wallet and place them on the table. “Nope. I think we’re good.”

  “You’re not going to invite me on the road with you?”

  I laugh at Reina’s confident spirit. “Is the ink on your ID card even dry yet?”

  “As a bone,” she says. “Come on, you know I’ll learn more on the trip than I would staying behind.”

  “You barely know anything yet. You could sit in reception for two weeks and come out knowing twice as much as you do right now.”

  “Then imagine how much I’ll learn after two weeks on the road.”

  Chapter 7

  @BettencourtBets: Check out WW’s interview with IVy. We’ve got Wall Street’s Hottest Hedgie right here folks, just sayin . . .

  Tristan

  We arrived in Atlanta yesterday, just in time to take out half a dozen executives from the largest institutional management group in the South. I wake up with a throbbing headache and morning wood that could clear a forest.

  The knock at my door comes as I’m in the shower, groggily debating whether I’m too tired to jerk-off. Decision made for me, I answer it with bleary eyes and a towel wrapped around my waist.

  Reina looks as immaculate as always, and, even better, she has a steaming cup of Starbucks in her hand. Coffee isn’t usually my thing, but in my current state, I’ll gulp down anything with caffeine or sugar, preferably both.

  “Rough night?” she asks, her lips twitching.

  As the low man on the totem pole, Reina spent most of last night in our hotel’s business center, making sure the presentations scheduled for today will go off without a hitch. But she still looks as fresh as if she’s gotten eight hours of sleep, followed by a morning at the hotel’s spa. Neither of which, I know, has happened.

  I shake my head glumly. “What’s up with these people? I swear they must only get out a few nights of the year. None of them wanted to go home—we closed the place down.”

  Reina leans back against the door, prompting a flashback of the all-too-fleeting moment I had her up against my apartment door, trembling and breathless. Mine.

  I draw her into me, setting my coffee on a nearby table.r />
  “Oh no.” Reina smoothly sidesteps my advances. “You have an on-camera interview this morning. I promised the team I’d have you in the car in twenty minutes. They’re already headed to their breakfast with Georgia Electric’s pension fund.”

  If she was anyone else, I might’ve replied that I could be quick. But Reina makes me want to take my time. One minute she’s as haughty as Eastern European royalty, and the next she exudes more sex appeal than a Sports Illustrated cover model. I find her contradictions as erotic as her curves. “Fine.” I let the towel drop just before walking into the closet to get dressed.

  “While you were off getting lap dances—”

  I poke my head through the open door. “For the record, I did not get a single lap dance. I just paid for them.”

  “Okay,” she strings out the word. “On the off chance your visit to Atlanta’s strip club scene comes up, let’s not mention that you bankrolled the exploitation of women.”

  I chuckle. “If this interviewer expects a recounting of my night at all, he’s booked the wrong guest.”

  “Actually, there’s been a change. It’s a she. You probably haven’t seen the email yet, since it came in late last night. She’s the network’s new money honey.”

  “Money honey?” I choke out a laugh as I adjust my tie.

  “Come on, you’ve heard the term. It’s like using gorgeous girls with big boobs to stand on the sidelines of a football field in the hopes that a player will talk to them instead of a guy in a suit.”

  “Oh, I’ve heard it. I just didn’t expect to hear it come out of your mouth.”

  “Because it’s an offensively sexist and misogynistic term degrading to women who are every bit as smart and capable as their male counterparts?”

  “Something like that,” I answer dryly.

  “Well, you are one hundred percent right,” she says with a sigh. “I guess I’m just not much of a fan of this particular financial correspondent. I’ve reviewed footage from a bunch of her interviews. She takes too many cheap shots at her guests.”

  “So this money honey is out to make me look bad?”

  “Not bad, exactly. But she has a knack for getting more from her guests than straight performance numbers and investment strategy. If she gets anything remotely juicy, she tuns it into clickbait.”

  Swallowing a curse, I unknot my sorry excuse for a Windsor and try again, now dreading the on-camera interview. Shrugging into my jacket, I reach for the door.

  Reina puts down her cup. “Let me,” she whispers, her voice as husky as I remember it being after I kissed her. She steps forward to adjust my tie, the tip of her tongue poking through her full lips as she concentrates on straightening the knot.

  “You are amazing,” I breathe, the compliment slipping out, completely unplanned.

  She looks up, bemused. “Why, because I can tie a tie better than you?”

  “This is what, your second week on the job? How is it possible that you’re getting everything right? In the office, you’re among the first to arrive and the last to leave, and now out on the road you’re thinking ahead, watching back-footage of reporters that not even my PR team thought to review. You even researched potential investors’ allergies, for God’s sake.”

  Reina blushes. Last night we had reservations at a well-known seafood restaurant, but Reina discovered that one of the portfolio managers we invited had a shellfish allergy and suggested changing to a steakhouse instead. True, she isn’t delving deep into the investing aspect of the business yet, but she’s finding a million other ways to be useful, indispensable even.

  Reina gives my tie a final pat. “You had better get your game face on. The camera sees everything and you don’t want to look like a horndog on national television.”

  I raise my eyebrows, leering exaggeratedly. “Maybe because I am.”

  She pokes a manicured fingernail into my chest. “And don’t look at me like that in front of anyone else either.”

  I fight the urge to put her hand somewhere infinitely more pleasant. “You know, I’ve never dated a girl who was ashamed of being seen with me in public. It’s quite humbling.”

  “I’m not ashamed, Tristan. And we’re not dating, either.”

  I lean down, breathing in the light floral scent clinging to her skin, her hair whisper soft against my freshly shaven cheek. “You’re always so perfect, so buttoned up. I’m counting the minutes until you fall apart in my arms.”

  The vein running just beneath Reina’s nearly translucent skin pulses furiously, and I don’t miss the quick hiss of her breath. Losing my internal battle, I press her hand against my already straining zipper. “Last time I checked, I still had something to prove to you—and I intend to follow through.”

  The twinkle of mischief in Reina’s eyes pleases me. “And I’m looking forward to it,” she says with a wink, before reaching around me to open the door herself. “But first, you’ve got to pet the money honey.”

  Reina

  I stake out a quiet corner at the back of the studio, intending to blend into the background until Tristan is done with his interview. The rest of the team is at a breakfast meeting and we’ll be joining them as soon as he’s finished.

  From my vantage point, I have an unobstructed view as Tristan answers question after question with his usual easygoing charm. No small feat when he’s being peppered with as many questions about about his personal life as he is about Bettencourt and the Polaris Fund.

  How does it feel wearing the mantle of four generations of internationally renowned banking geniuses on your shoulders? Is there anyone “special” in your life? Has your recent success strained your relationship with your father, whose own fund outperformed the market, but not by nearly the same margin as the Polaris Fund?

  Several times, Tristan has to steer their conversation back to a professional footing. But he does it so graciously that by the end of the segment, resident money honey Wendy Whitaker is practically purring.

  “You were flawless,” I gush afterwards, once Tristan’s mike has been turned off and unclipped from the inside of his lapel, hoping I don’t sound too starstruck. But he has a habit of doing that to me.

  Tristan gives a nod of thanks, then scratches his cheek. “I didn’t realize Wendy would be doing the interview. We go way back.”

  “Small world.” Though I shouldn’t be surprised. Of course, the children of two of Manhattan’s wealthiest fund managers would know each other. There is probably a special preschool just for Manhattan’s financial royalty, one where stealing other kids’ toys is encouraged to promote healthy competition.

  I’d love to know more, but I force myself not to pry. At least not while we’re still in the television studio. I have a connection to Wendy, too, though I highly doubt she’d welcome me with open arms as she had Tristan.

  “I’m just going to scrub this TV makeup off before we leave.” He grimaces. “How the hell do you wear this crap every day?”

  “As my mother would say, ‘beauty is pain.’” Interspersed with my mother’s stories of her heyday in Manhattan were plenty of tips on maintaining and enhancing an attractive appearance. When I see her, she sometimes reminds me of ancient Egyptian sarcophagus, shrouding her expertly preserved yet still decaying body in priceless jewels and tinted paint.

  “And you listened to her?”

  I lift an elegantly tortured foot, gesturing at the high heel and pointed toe. “Have you ever looked at my shoes?”

  He bends down a few inches, lowering his voice until it’s a gritty rumble. “I fucking love your shoes.”

  I laugh, blushing as I swat at his chest. “Go wash your face before you leave scratch marks. I left a fresh shirt for you in the green room.”

  He hooks a finger around his collar, the bright white now rimmed with bronzer, and sighs. “Be right back.”

  Once my head clears from the distracting force of Tristan’s playful teasing, I pull myself together and edge closer to the exit, fishing in my purse to call th
e driver and let him know we will be down shortly. I’ve purposely tried to be as unobtrusive as possible, but I’m anxious to leave. Every second I remain in Wendy’s line of vision is dangerous. My fingers have just closed around the device when I see her extricating herself from the tangle of wires on set and walking over, hand extended in introduction. Fuck me.

  “Hello, there.” The Gwendolyn Van Horne I remember from the photos of my mother’s wedding was a glamorous young woman who seemed to have it all. Wendy Whitaker, however, is almost a caricature. Botoxed forehead, too-thin nose, overly sculpted cheeks, and glossy, duck-pout lips set atop a toothpick body. And with her blonde bob adding extra inches of width, she looks exactly like what she’s become—a ‘talking head’ TV reporter.

  Keep your cool. Wendy has no idea who you really are. I marshal a polite, impersonal grin. “So nice to meet you, Ms. Whitaker. I’m a big fan of your work.” I purposely don’t offer my name, going straight for flattery in the hopes of distracting her.

  It doesn’t. “Reina, right?”

  Shit, shit, shit. My smile wobbles. “Yes, that’s right.”

  “You’re here with Tristan?” Although Wendy’s expression is amiable, I’m getting the feeling it probably has more to do with her plastic surgeon’s handiwork than her actual state of mind. There’s an edge of derision to her tone that grates at my eardrums like nails on chalkboard.

  “Yes. I work for him actually, at Bettencourt.”

  Whitney’s eyebrows struggle to lift, ultimately losing the battle with her heavily Botoxed forehead. “Oh. I assumed you were his girlfriend.”

  “Girlfriend? No, absolutely not.”

  There’s an awkward pause. Well, awkward for me. Wendy doesn’t seem at all bothered as she looks me up and down. Finally, she says, “Don’t worry, sweetheart. Your mother no doubt taught you well. I’m sure he will be soon.” Her eyes are flat gray, like a shark’s.