@BettencourtBets: Welcome to Bettencourt’s newest crop of wannabe bankers—12 hopefuls vying for 6 spots! Has a favorite already emerged?

Tristan

I plastered a smile on my face as I opened the door. I didn’t have time to give some kind of locker room pep talk to a dozen kids, half of whom wouldn’t be working here in six months. Even when I played hockey, I hated the forced congeniality before I could get back on the ice again. There, I knew exactly what my mission was—get the puck in the net and bulldoze anyone who got in my way. Period.

These days, my goal was just as simple—make money. And I’m damn good at it. But because of my last name, I also get stuck with a lot of the glad-handing. I don’t mind, too much, when it’s with someone holding a checkbook. Sucking up to potential investors is just part of the job. It isn’t my favorite part, but it’s a necessary evil.

Welcoming the rookies was a necessary evil too, albeit one I would have gladly handed off to someone else. Except the only other person in the building who shared my last name had dumped it squarely in my lap.

I’d nearly forgotten about it, too, but Megan was friendly with my assistant and had begged her to make sure I walked into conference room 17D at exactly 11:45. So here I was, walking into conference room 17D, contemplating firing my assistant.

I waved off the smattering of applause that accompanied my arrival and walked to the front of the room. Plastering a smile on my face, I nodded briefly at Megan and turned to face Bettencourt’s newest training class. Except that when I opened my mouth to launch into my obligatory speech, no sound emerged. There, front and center, was the face that had occupied most of my waking and sleeping hours since the moment I’d gotten sunburn from her smile.

Reina St. James.

She looked completely different than she had on Saturday. The light blond hair that had fallen down her back like a curtain of spun gold was now pulled away from her face. And the stunning figure that had been accentuated by her cocktail dress was hidden beneath a conservative business suit. But her eyes still stared at me exactly the way she had two minutes before walking out of my apartment, the provocative mix of fear and anger as obvious as dead autumn leaves scattered across a still lush lawn.

Megan jumped in, introducing everyone seated at the table and including a quippy fact about each. She could’ve been speaking another language until she got to the only person in the room I was interested in. “Reina St. James. She’s a recent graduate of Columbia University and won the Bettencourt-sponsored investment contest all four years.”

A flush pinkened Reina’s skin, and she broke our gaze to look down at her notebook. Megan moved on to the next person seated at the table, but I interrupted her. “That’s quite an accomplishment, Miss St. James. You should swing by my office later so we can discuss your successful investment strategy.” Was my suggestion casual enough not to broadcast my desire for Reina to everyone in the room? I had no idea. Maybe it would have helped if I could’ve looked away from her to find out.

Reina lifted her head, her expression intentionally blank although she could do nothing about her bright green eyes. They communicated everything the rest of her face was trying so hard not to. Megan looked back and forth between us and then let out an excited twitter, clearly thrilled by my interest. “I’m sure Reina would welcome the opportunity for some one-on-one time with you.” Her arms still flapping, she moved on to the next person even as my attention remained riveted on Reina. A recent graduate. Barring any unusual circumstance, that would make her twenty or twenty-one. Twenty-two at the oldest. Jesus.

Was she even old enough to drink? I should’ve trusted my instincts. I knew Reina looked young. The longer I stood in that room the angrier I got. Not at her, though. At myself.

I finally dragged my gaze away from Reina, knowing I’d already shown too much interest in her. After Megan finished her introductions, I somehow managed to get through my welcome speech without actually tripping over any of my own words. Not that it was easy. Reina’s emerald stare was like an anchor, inexorably pulling my attention toward her. With each eyeful, a pulse of desire shot through my veins. Afraid of tenting my pants if I didn’t get out of there, I wrapped up, endured another burst of applause, and excused myself.

“Mr. Bettencourt,” Megan called out before I made it out the door. “If now is a good time, I’m sure Reina would love some one-on-one time with you.”

Reina

I followed Tristan, feeling like a lamb being led to the slaughter. One-on-one time with Tristan? I’d had plenty of that on Saturday night, thank you very much. More than enough, actually. In any other situation I would’ve enjoyed the jealous stares burning through my back as I earned the attention of a person we were all trying to impress. But today I would have rather been one of them, a newbie who hadn’t received the slightest notice yet, either positive or negative. While Tristan could offer me a permanent position, he could just as easily have me fired—and I was afraid to guess which way he was leaning.

Nothing was said as he led the way down the hall, to the elevator, down another hallway, and into his private office with a sure-footed gait. He was a big man, and most would have lumbered rather than walked. But not Tristan. He prowled.

It was impossible not to recall how good it had felt to be led through a crowded ballroom with his hand at the small of my back. Or even better, lifted in his arms and carried to his bed. I gave myself a mental shake. Damn it, Reina, get your mind out of Tristan’s bedroom.

Mustering up the nerve to glance at his face, I wondered if he could see the heat creeping up my neck. But his expression was completely impassive, impossible to read.

After what felt like hours, Tristan stopped at an open door. I looked around, hoping to get a sense of him, but his office was just as impersonal as his apartment had been. Here, the furniture was dark and traditional, completely the opposite of his apartment. Obviously Tristan let other people do the decorating for him, and didn’t seem to care about his furnishings one way or another. Several paintings hung on the walls and they looked expensive, with heavy gold frames. I doubted Tristan had chosen them, either.

He closed the door behind us, and I followed him across the large room to a seating arrangement near the windows, purposely choosing a chair facing away from the clear wall that looked out on the array of desks clustered in the interior of the building. I didn’t want to take the chance of someone watching me watch him.

Thirty-six hours ago I’d walked out on Tristan Bettencourt, and today he held the key to my future in his hands. I had to convince him not to fire me. And not only that—to let me work directly for him. He was the hottest fund manager in New York right now. And if I’d had the chance to look through Money magazine before the fundraiser on Saturday, I would have seen his face staring at me from the cover. Then I never would’ve made the mistake of going home with him.

Even with my dream job on the line, I felt a rush of lust. Shit. I’d always been able to separate the things I did for fun, to let off steam, from the powerful ambition that had earned me straight A’s and nearly perfect SAT scores. But every once in a while I took a break from studying and did what most coeds did—drink a little too much and flirt with cute guys . . . but never ones I would see the next day in class. During my four years of college, I never even kissed anyone sharing my same major. I didn’t need that kind of drama. I had two goals: graduate at the top of my class and land a high-paying, fast paced job on Wall Street. Distraction was to be avoided at all costs.

And it had worked. Here I was, an ID badge for the most sought-after firm in New York slung around my neck.

Sitting across from a man who had traced the same skin with his tongue, calling out his name as he buried his face between my thighs.

I was screwed.

And not in a good way.

Today Tristan wore a dark navy suit, with just the thinnest hint of a pinstripe. Who knew pinstripes could be so sexy? Although on him, anything would be sexy. Stop it. I crossed my legs, feeling a surge of heat as he looked down at my thighs. Not nearly as much skin was exposed as had been on Saturday, but my thighs tingled as if his knees were still pressed against them. I flushed.

“Can I get you something? Water, soda?” A lopsided grin played at the corners of his lips. “No cocktails, I’m afraid.”

I struggled to match his calm, even tone. How could he sound so normal? “Water would be great.”

Tristan walked to a small refrigerator concealed behind mahogany paneling, and produced a clear plastic bottle. Our fingers brushed as he handed it to me, sending an electric current racing up my spine. “Thanks.”

“I don’t know many twenty-five-year-old recent graduates.”

My palm was damp, and the water bottle was covered in a thin film of condensation. It slipped through my fingers and dropped to the floor, rolling right back to Tristan’s feet. I choked out a response, my mouth dry as I stared at the runaway vessel. “I’ll be twenty-four in a few months.”

His face unreadable, Tristan bent down and tossed the bottle into the recycling bin in the corner of the room. “So, lying about your age is something you do often.” With smooth movements, he crossed the room to retrieve another bottle and returned, extending it to me.

“Not usually, no,” I answered, discreetly running my palms along my skirt before reaching for it.

“Mmm hmm. Most college grads are twenty-one, twenty-two at the oldest. Sometimes older if they’ve had a stint in the military.” Tristan’s eyes raked over me, seeing beneath my carefully chosen layers as easily as he’d lowered my zipper on Saturday night, turning my dress into a puddle on his floor. “I can’t picture you in army fatigues.”

Tristan had an unnerving habit of asking questions without actually asking a question. “No. I changed schools in my freshman year, repeating the grade because of a difference in age requirements.”

Tristan nodded. “So that accounts for one year.”

“I deferred Columbia too.”

“Deferred,” he repeated. “What did you do?”

I fumbled with the cap, struggling to answer Tristan’s simple question. I hadn’t planned to delay college, but when my dad died suddenly of an aneurism just a few months before I graduated from high school, it hit me pretty hard. And his loss was compounded when I realized it hadn’t changed anything. My mother didn’t come to my rescue. Van Horne didn’t welcome me into his family. Both my biological parents were alive and well . . . but I was an orphan. Limping through the remainder of my coursework, I mourned the loss of not one parent, but three. Smiles were pretty hard to come by, back then. Columbia would have been a disaster.

“I sailed around the world with a friend. She hadn’t quite figured out her path yet, and her father suggested a gap year abroad. I thought I’d take the opportunity to see the world before coming back to New York City for what I intend to be a long career on Wall Street.” Of course, my cruise only lasted until my friend’s father made a pass at me. After I turned him down, apparently not as gently as I should have, I found myself stranded in Algeria. Without my passport.

Beneath Tristan’s observant gaze, the walk down memory lane had me feeling uncoordinated and clumsy. I didn’t have enough strength in my fingers to untwist the cap.

Of course, he noticed that, too.

Tristan held his hand out and I gratefully turned over the bottle. With a small movement, he opened it and handed it back to me. I flushed. “Thanks.” Taking a sip, I collected my thoughts, seeing myself through Tristan’s eyes. Reina St. James: tease, liar, klutz.

Pull yourself together, Reina. At the very least, I needed to appear poised and professional to have a shot in hell of making Tristan forget that I was the same woman he’d backed up against his door, mewling in ecstasy as his mouth took her to a place she hadn’t even known existed. The water was a welcome relief for the scratchiness at the back of my throat, and I swallowed. “So you’re interested in my past performance?” I could have smacked my own forehead. Shot in hell? More like misfire.

“Actually yes, I am very interested in your past performance.”

Cheeks burning, I ignored the double entendre and plowed ahead, rattling off a string of technical jargon. Price-to-earning ratios, market share, foreign currency impacts. My presentation to the panel judging the most recent investment contest fell from my lips with no thought whatsoever. Which was good, because I wasn’t capable of rational thought at the moment. My returns had been nearly double those of my closest competitor, and it was probably why I’d been offered a place in this year’s training program at Bettencourt. “So I think you can see that my interest in investing runs deep and I’d really like the opportunity to work under you.” Under you? “Um, I mean with you. For you.”

Not even the slightest crinkling at the corner of Tristan’s eyes hinted that he found merit in my appeal. “I seem to recall that the last place you wanted to be was beneath me.”

He was going there. Shit. I squared my shoulders. Fine. I could too. “Yes. And this is exactly why. As soon as I saw that logo, crest, whatever, hanging above your bed, this is why I left. It’s not that I didn’t want to be with you.”

A lock of Tristan’s hair fell forward, and I had to tuck my hand beneath my thigh to keep from brushing it back. For a moment, my resolve softened. “I mean, I’m not going to lie, being with you was amazing . . . Better than amazing.” And then I realized how many women must throw themselves at a Tristan on a daily basis. He said he didn’t have one-night stands, but what did I know? Based on his looks alone, Tristan could bring home a different woman every night of the week if he wanted to. Factor in his name and bank account, and hell, he probably had to fight them off with a stick. If he fought at all.

What Tristan needed from me right now was unfiltered honesty. So I straightened, took another breath, and gave it to him. “Listen, I worked my ass off to get this opportunity. And if you give me a chance, I’ll prove that I can hang with the big swinging dicks on Wall Street. But I can’t do that if I’m sleeping with the biggest one of them all.”

Tristan

Better than amazing? And had she really just quoted Michael Lewis at me? Not from one of his recent book - turned - movies, Moneyball or The Big Short, but the classic Liar’s Poker. The book that had been written as a cautionary tale but became a cult classic, a call to arms for anyone wanting a go - big - or - go - home career in finance. Before there was @GSElevator or @BettencourtBets, before blogs or tweets even existed—there was Liar’s Poker. Unfortunately, few in the everyone - gets - a - trophy generation have ever read it.

Pride swelled my chest, yielding to begrudging respect. Both of which were quickly replaced by frustration. I sighed. Reina was right. Any hint that she had slept her way into this job would forever stain her reputation. And given the ten-year difference in our ages, the fallout from a scandalous rumor wouldn’t be good for my mine either.

I waited a beat, hoping my assessment would remove the desire heating the blood in my veins. For God’s sake, Reina St. James was a sexual harassment lawsuit waiting to happen and I knew it. I looked out the window, then back at Reina. Nope. It didn’t work. I still wanted to jump across the cocktail table, take her in my arms, and kiss her until my world made sense again. Work together? Bad idea. Terrible idea. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

Pussy-whipped fool. “Yes. I’ll let Megan know you’ll be starting your rotation in my group.” I tried to tell myself having Reina nearby was really just the smartest move—keep your friends close and your enemies closer, after all. But I had never wanted to bend an enemy over my desk and—

“You would do that for me?” Reina’s relief was palpable.

Reluctantly, I dragged my mind out of the gutter. “Sure. You would have to work on Millennial at some point anyway. And frankly, we’re opening up the fund to new investors soon. I could use an extra set of hands, especially when they belong to someone who’s so passionate about our core business.”

Yeah, I’m not going to lie—Reina’s passion was the reason I wasn’t escorting her to our legal department and asking them to cut a huge check in return for walking away from Bettencourt as fast as her gorgeous legs could carry her. I shouldn’t feel this way about one of my employees—and certainly not a twenty-three-year-old trainee.

Except that this particular twenty-three-year-old trainee wasn’t just whip-smart, she was bold and confident. And she’d been the most interesting dinner companion I’d had in months, if ever. I made a mental note to look at Reina’s file. How close was she to twenty-four? It wasn’t as good as twenty-five, but it sounded a hell of a lot better than twenty-three.

“You won’t regret it, I promise.”

I swallowed a grunt of dissent. I already did. There was a sensuality in the curves Reina covered up so well today, and I couldn’t force the memory away. It wasn’t right that Reina’s breasts practically demanded to be worshipped. Recalling the way she’d come apart beneath my mouth, embracing her orgasm with abandon, my cock pulsed to life inside my pants. Maybe it was wrong—maybe it was even illegal—but I would agree to just about anything Reina wanted if it meant keeping her close to me. “So tell me, why Bettencourt? Ivy League school, impressive GPA. I’m sure ours wasn’t the only job offer you received.” Reina could have chosen to work for any other financial services firm on Wall Street, and there were hundreds of hedge funds to choose from. But the most gorgeous girl I’d ever laid eyes on had set her sights on Bettencourt. And, more specifically, the Millennial Fund. My fund.

“No. But it was the best one. The one everyone in my graduating class was aiming for.”

“And that’s important to you?”

“What?”

“That you get what everyone else wants.”

She cocked her head to the side and looked at me warily. “Of course.”

I nodded, wondering if I should take her answer as a cautious flare. But I gave myself a mental shake. I wasn’t interviewing her to be my next girlfriend. Reina was a Bettencourt hire—and from what I could see so far, a good one. Just because I had a permanent bad taste in my mouth from a beautiful woman with an ugly ulterior motive didn’t mean I had to judge every word Reina said.

By Bettencourt employee standards, her answer was perfect. The truth was, investing was really just legalized gambling, and every worthwhile gambler had just one goal. Winning. All games had a prize, and the most successful of us were relentless in our pursuit of victory. But working at a hedge fund had an important distinction. Our bets were financed with other people’s money.

“You have the right mindset,” I acknowledged. “Wall Street is just one big zero-sum game. Everyone in this business owes their success to someone else’s failure. If you make a million dollars, it’s because some stooge just lost a million. And only the most tenacious survive.”

Reina’s eyebrows rose politely. “What most interests me is finding opportunities no one else has discovered yet.” The passion I found so intriguing lent a husky timbre to her voice, and I leaned forward in my chair as if drawn to her by a gravitational force. “To me, investing is like one big treasure hunt. If you do the research, and you work harder and smarter than everyone else, there’s a chance you might see something no one else has seen. If you’re right, your reward is absolute, and measured in dollars and cents.”

I cleared my throat, forcing myself to lean back. I’d never had a conversation about investment strategy make me hard. “Why don’t you tell me a little about yourself?”

Reina straightened, crossing her legs at the ankle. “Is this an interview?”

“Maybe.”

“I have a better idea,” she deflected. “I ran out on you once I realized who you were. Now that we’ll be working together, I think I should get to know you.”

I regarded her skeptically. “You do realize that’s generally not the way an interview works? I’m the one with the job opening, you’re supposed to convince me that you deserve it.”

The impish gleam in Reina’s eyes gave her an unfair advantage. “But you’ve already given me the job, right? Let’s go off-script.”