@BettencourtBets: We have a celebrity in our midst! Guess who made the cover of Money?

Tristan

I was deliberately honest with Reina. And deliberately vulgar. It was my way of giving her one last chance. Lately, every girl I met hinted at her desire for an engagement ring as soon as possible. Yet this one had laughed at the suggestion.

Reina’s eyebrows were nearly as pale as the hair on her head, and she looked so young beneath the streetlights. But her eyes were old, wary. They stared at me now, twin pools of a shallow lake, dense with undergrowth. And it was the look in them that made me want to shock her, push her away. Instead, her lips parted, her flush unmistakable beneath her nearly translucent skin. Before she said a word, I knew she wanted me every bit as much as I wanted her.

And so I left my doubts outside as I led Reina through the lobby of my building and into the elevator. Neither one of us made small talk as the car ascended. The zipper at her back beckoned, her lips even more—but if I kissed her, if I exposed even one more inch of her flawless skin, we would never make it inside my apartment.

The brief walk from the elevator to my door seemed interminable, even though it was only thirty feet. I fumbled in my pocket for my keys, concentrating on not dropping all of them as I searched for just one. The alarm sounded as I opened the door and I quickly put my palm on the reader.

“Very James Bond of you.”

I ignored Reina’s remark. “Turn around.” Her zipper slid downward with a satisfying squeal. I pushed the thin straps off her shoulders as the material slid down her body into a remarkably small lump on my floor. A smudge, really. Reina wore a black lace bra and panty set. It was thin and flimsy, and had about the same effect as Pavlov’s bell.

I’d purchased the penthouse fully furnished, and only while looking around for a suitable surface to back Reina up against did I realize that there were too many mirrors and paintings hanging on my walls. My door, however, was perfect.

I unclasped Reina’s bra, and slid her panties down her legs. I’m sure I could have ripped them with little effort, but I enjoyed the feel of her skin beneath my palms. When I stood back up, I swept the curtain of hair that fell halfway down her back over her shoulder and kissed the nape of her neck. Her perfume was light and feminine, as intoxicating as a drug.

She gave a soft moan and I spun her around, pushing her back against the door. As good as Reina smelled, she tasted even better. I lingered at the delicate hollow between her collarbone and then nuzzled my way up her neck to find her lips once more, my palms testing the weight of her breasts. They were full, heavier then I would have expected on her slim frame. Beneath my hands her nipples hardened into pebbles, and I bent to taste them too.

Reina

Holy crap. Was this how it felt to be with someone older, more experienced? If so, I could’ve slapped myself for not trying it before. This was nothing like the horizontal fumbling I’d endured before tonight.

I wanted to scream, to beg, to unleash a torrent of appreciative compliments as Tristan leisurely explored my body. He took his time. And he was very, very thorough. Instead I bit my lip, so hard I tasted blood. Every word I was capable of uttering would have been a brick on the scale of my inexperience. Tristan already thought I looked young, had hesitated on the sidewalk outside. I would be crazy to give him a reason to stop.

I struggled to keep some sense of awareness, realizing that I was naked while the only article of clothing Tristan had removed was his jacket. Trying to keep up, I reached for the buttons of his shirt only to have my hands caught, lifted above my head, and held there—firmly—by Tristan. I didn’t protest. Could I have managed to undo even one of his buttons . . . probably not. I was drowning in sensation, every inch of my skin felt alive. He’d given me several chances to walk away, and I knew even now, if I were to change my mind, Tristan would let me get dressed and send me on my way. But short of that, he was very clearly in control. And I was loving it.

His lips closed around my nipple, his tongue swirling around the needy peak. But nothing prepared me for the sharp bite of his teeth. I nearly jumped out of my skin. It didn’t hurt, not exactly, but it had the same effect as a flaming arrow shot directly into my core. All thought of holding back was erased. I yelled, arching away from the door to grind my body against his. I wanted more. So much more. Now.

There was a mewling sound as he pulled away from my breast, and I realized that I was the one making it. But he only moved to its twin and repeated his tongue/biting trick. I was panting now, my legs trembling. Tristan released my hands and dropped to his knees, his tongue blazing a trail of fire down the concave slope of my abdomen. I knew where he was going and I was both euphoric and terrified. Only one of my boyfriends had ever attempted to go down on me and it had felt okay, but not great, although he’d only done it for a minute or two before insisting that we change positions.

My fingers threaded through Tristan’s hair, pulling slightly. “Wait,” I whispered. “I don’t think—”

Tristan chuckled, the sound roaring through my veins. “Don’t think.” His tongue gave an experimental lick and I hissed. “Just feel.”

“Oh my God,” I mumbled. At twenty-three, nearly twenty-four, I had considered myself experienced and world-weary. Until tonight. Beneath Tristan’s confident touch, I was a newborn colt, all trembling legs and unsure steps. And I’d actually never had an orgasm with a man before. I had gotten close, very close, but something always made me hold back. I was an expert at faking it, though. Seriously, I could outdo Meg Ryan on her best day. And none of the guys I’d been with had even known the difference.

But Tristan wasn’t like any of the guys I’d ever been with before. Not by a long shot. He was honest but raunchy, gentle yet rough. And he needed to file a patent on his tongue. It had found that most sensitive part of me and wasn’t letting go. The pleasure built and built, until there was so much of it I couldn’t keep it all inside. A soft cry was ripped from my throat, and a vortex opened somewhere south of my navel, drawing the rest of me into it. I held onto Tristan for dear life as I broke apart, only coming back to earth when I felt him plant a tender kiss on my hipbone before sweeping me into his arms.

I had the vague sense of an attractive apartment with high ceilings, neutral walls, and monochromatic, angular looking furniture. A bachelor pad . . . for a very wealthy bachelor. The door to his bedroom was open and it was dominated by a large platform bed. All the furniture, including the bed, was white. The sheets were a soft, dove gray. One entire wall was made up of floor-to-ceiling windows and another, opposite the bed, was dominated by an enormous television suspended at eye level. An oversized piece of art hanging above the headboard caught my eye. Even in the dim light it looked strikingly familiar. Too familiar.

Tristan deposited me gently on the bed, the high thread count cotton feeling like silk against my naked back. But instead of relaxing against the thick mattress, reaching out for Tristan to join me, I scrambled backward, my hands slipping on the smooth sheets. Horror solidified into a cancerous lump in the pit of my stomach. There could only be one reason for the hanging on his wall.

Tristan

In my arms Reina had been soft and pliant, almost drowsy from the aftereffects of her orgasm. I, on the other hand, was as hard as I’d ever been. Having tasted her sweet center, I was desperate to be enveloped by her softness. But not until she cried out at least once more.

I wanted to hold her in my arms as she trembled, feel her body contract around mine. I needed to be inside of Reina more than I had ever needed anything in my whole life.

Except that she’d tensed up the moment I lowered her into my bed, darting back against the headboard like an abused puppy that had just peed at its master’s feet. She stared at me, the bits of gold that sparkled within the emerald of her eyes now dark, all traces of desire erased from her expression. “Why is there a logo hanging above your bed?”

I nearly groaned. The Bettencourt lineage could be traced back centuries to Northern France. When my great-grandfather started a small moneylending operation in Paris, he’d stamped all of his correspondence with the family crest. Fast forward a hundred years and that same crest was now the internationally recognized symbol of the Bettencourt hedge fund empire.

Of course, it had been too much to hope that I could have met a woman who was unfamiliar with the Bettencourt name at a fundraiser filled with half of Wall Street. “It’s not a logo, it’s a family crest.” The crest had been my Realtor’s way of personalizing the apartment for me. I cursed her now.

“What’s your full name?”

If I thought it would make a difference, I’d have turned over my entire family tree, but her wary stance told me she was just waiting for confirmation before fleeing. I stared dolefully at Reina, her gorgeous body still naked in my bed, knowing there were precious few seconds where that would remain true. I just didn’t understand why. As much as I hated it, my identity usually had the opposite effect on women. When your name represents money, generations of it, it attracts women rather than repels them. Which was why I left out that part of my equation whenever possible. I’d had more than my share of faux friends just looking for a handout, or an introduction that might lead to an internship or a job offer. Women were the worst, though, they wanted much more. And I’d almost fallen for it. Once.

I didn’t hate my name, not at all. Or my family history. I was proud of who my ancestors had been, what they had achieved. But watching Reina tally the sum total of not just my own accomplishments and failures, but of the men that had come before me . . . My raging hard-on softened to mildly aggrieved. “Tristan Xavier Bettencourt,” adding in a mumble, “the fourth.”

Reina bolted upright, grabbing a pillow to cover herself. “I have to go.”

It was the second time in an hour she’d uttered that exact same sentence and the fact that her tone was entirely different now than it had been before wasn’t lost on me. “Do you have something against bankers? Or only me in particular?”

“I just have to go, Tristan.”

I pressed my lips together, not wanting to embarrass myself any further by begging, and raked my scalp with both hands before stalking out of the room. Reina’s heels clicked on the floor as she darted toward the small pile of clothes strewn across my entryway.

I averted my eyes for long enough to assure that she was fully dressed, only to notice her struggling with the back zipper. That damn zipper again. A sound that was half groan, half growl escaped my mouth and Reina looked up, startled. I walked over, a glutton for punishment. “Here, let me.”

“Thanks.”

“Sure.” I opened the door to let Reina out and followed her into the corridor.

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

I reached past her to push the call button for the elevator. “I’m going to get you a cab.”

She seemed surprised. “That’s ridiculous. I’m perfectly capable of hailing my own.”

“I never said you weren’t.”

Reina

I watched Tristan slip the driver a bill, feeling like an asshole. An entire ballroom filled with men and I had to go home with fucking IVy? He was sexy as hell, and he played my body better than I ever had. His lips were pursed in a frown, and if I kissed him, I knew I would taste myself on his lips.

But kissing Tristan Xavier Bettencourt IV, ever again, was out of the question. I can’t believe I hadn’t recognized him, although after it had been corrupted by a virus last year, I’d set my Internet browser to text-only. The cracks in my iPhone screen that I was too broke to fix didn’t help matters either.

Even so, I should have put two and two together. Tristan was the reason I’d applied to Bettencourt in the first place. In a market flooded by quant-heavy, high-frequency trading strategies, he had stunned investment experts last year by announcing he was launching a back-to-basics, value-investing hedge fund. And I wanted in.

Tristan didn’t say anything else, just patted the door as he stepped back onto the curb. I gave my address, burrowing into the dark interior like a toddler hiding behind a curtain panel. But it didn’t matter—the heat of his stare lingered on my skin as the cab merged into traffic.

Air. I needed air. I fumbled for the window switch and sucked in huge lungfuls of Manhattan’s finest. Since birth, I’d been an asshole magnet. Only this time, I was the asshole. Tristan hadn’t done anything wrong. But there was no way I could be with him. He was a luxury I couldn’t afford. A magnum of Moët, while my budget only allowed for a can of Natty Light.

Horror twisted my stomach into knots as I replayed the entire evening in my mind. If there was a rewind button, I would’ve pressed it. I would’ve stayed with my boring date, and been back at home, alone, having already pawned him off with nothing more than a kiss and maybe some heavy petting.

Because then I wouldn’t have to spend the rest of my weekend freaking out over the fact that Monday would be the first day of my new job. At Bettencourt.

With every bit of my nearly non-existent religious education, I prayed Tristan was a hands-off boss who spent most of his time locked up in his office. What were the chances he would stoop to meeting a bunch of newbies on their very first day? Maybe, just maybe, there was a slight chance I wouldn’t screw up the most sought-after job in my graduating class before lunch.

Even though my mom had left me for a billionaire, I needed this job. The tiny shoebox I lived in wasn’t cheap, and my staggering school loans wouldn’t go away on their own. Just like Tristan, I was a hedge fund heir—not that I’d inherit a dime. I wasn’t bitter, or at least I tried not to be. But Tristan and I belonged to different worlds, and in mine biology didn’t count for shit. So, as far as I was concerned, my biological father could go screw himself. I would make my own money. Lots of it. Unlike my mother, I was never going to count on a man for anything.

There was a lot of money to be made on Wall Street, but the heavy hitters worked in hedge funds. Not just any fund, though. Only the successful ones. The ones earning returns of thirty, fifty, seventy—even one hundred percent or more.

Most of Bettencourt’s hires had graduate degrees, and I was lucky to have been granted an interview, let alone snag the brass ring—an actual job. I wasn’t about to fuck it up by fucking a Bettencourt. No matter how good I knew, with every inch of my still-tingling body, it would have been.

* * *

“Welcome to Bettencourt.” There were twelve of us seated in the conference room for our orientation. It was nearly noon, and the first part of our morning had been spent filling out paperwork, taking pictures for our ID cards, and being fingerprinted. Security was as tight as I imagined it would be if I was working for the FBI. Although our starting salaries were probably higher than a ten-year veteran of the Bureau.

For the next twenty minutes or so, Megan, the woman responsible for our training class, spoke to us about the history of the bank. From Tristan Bettencourt’s noble lineage in France to his son Tristan Bettencourt II’s expansion into England and America. TB III, she explained, had taken Bettencourt in a new and exciting direction by launching a hedge fund division when he took over and making the difficult decision to close down all commercial banking operations. Bettencourt still had a few offices in Europe, and one in Bermuda, servicing high net worth individuals, but here in the financial capital of the world, its family of funds were some of the best performing on Wall Street.

For the next six months, the twelve of us would rotate through all areas of Bettencourt—marketing, research, trading, investments, account management, sales, etc.—as well as having the opportunity to work with a few fund-specific teams, before earning a permanent place in one of them. . . . Or not. “I suggest you look around this room. Half of you will not be offered a permanent position at the end of your training. Think of this as a six-month job interview.”

I looked around, wondering how many others had set their sights on the Millennial Fund. There was only one other woman seated at the conference table, a squat Asian whose eyes, when she looked up from the copious notes she was scribbling, were barely visible through her thick glasses.

Our den mother, Megan, smiled brightly as the door to our conference room opened. “And now I’d like to introduce you to the man responsible for the most successful fund launch Bettencourt has ever had. It’s my understanding that there is one spot open on his team, so watch out for flying elbows as I’m quite sure many, if not all of you, will be fighting for it. Please welcome—”

The door was at my back and I held my breath. Please don’t let it be Tristan. Please don’t let it be Tristan. And suddenly, just by saying his name to myself, I was right back where I’d been Saturday night, naked and moaning, completely controlled by—

“—Tristan Bettencourt, the fourth.”