@BettencourtBets: Guess who scored the pick of the litter?

Tristan

My pulse jumped. How the hell had this woman managed to turn the tables on me? “What would you like to know?” Then again, if it kept her in my office, I didn’t care.

“That’s easy. Everything.”

Easy. I stood, walking to my desk and scanning the array of computer screens with flashing numbers preceded by dollars, and charts with multicolored jagged lines. These screens were like the instrument panel in a cockpit. Just a quick glance told me everything I needed to know about Millennial’s flight pattern, and without them I’d be flying blind. Running a successful fund was not a one-man job. I had a team of professionals working with me. Traders, portfolio managers, researchers with more PhDs than most universities. There was always work to be done—but right now my screens showed blue skies. Not that storms couldn’t come up in the blink of an eye. They can and did, usually when they were least expected. Turbulence could be minimized, but avoiding it completely was impossible.

I turned back to Reina, and leaned against my desk. “Banking is the family business, but I didn’t coast through school only to be given an inflated title with no expectation of real responsibility. I graduated from Harvard, started working with high net-worth clients overseas. Realized I was bored out of my mind, went back to school for my MBA, and shifted to investing here in New York. Eventually found my comfort zone in portfolio management. Started my own fund, Millennial, a year ago.” I held out my hands, palms facing up. “So far, so good.”

“You’re not bored anymore?”

The tension between us sizzled as loudly as the grill of my favorite burger joint down the street. “No, not at all,” I declared, not referring to my work in the slightest. I watched her swallow, contemplating my response, and wondered what it would feel like to be inside of her throat, to have her tongue sweep across the head of my shaft.

“So Bettencourt is really a family affair?”

“You could say that.”

“What about your mother?”

I didn’t like talking about my mother. Scratch that. I didn’t talk about my mother. Not to friends, or girlfriends. Not to a therapist. And only in the most vague, skate - around - the - cracked - ice kind of way with my own father.

Clearing my throat, I glanced back at my cockpit, pretending to notice something urgently requiring my attention. “One second, Reina, just need to check on a trade,” I bit out. No matter how much time had passed, inside I was still a five-year-old boy with skinned knees and a bowl haircut who believed every hurt could be healed by a hug from his mom.

Standing by her bedside, I was trying to be brave, trying to be good. I hadn’t wanted to be either. I wanted to bawl my eyes out, preferably in her arms. I wanted to run and yell and make a mess, anything to have her get out of bed and chase me around the house like she used to do. But it had been weeks, maybe months, since she’d been strong enough to hold me, let alone chase me.

My mother’s eyes had taken on a yellowish tone, and they were not nearly as bright as they used to be. But a weak smile lifted her lips as she looked at me, and her hand reached out for mine. A nurse hovered nearby, adjusted the clear bag hanging above my mother’s head. “Mommy has to go soon, my sweet boy.”

I shook my head. “No, Mommy. I want you here, with me.”

Her voice broke. “I wish I could stay with you, too, with you and Daddy.” My mother glanced up, over my head, locking eyes with my father. He stood behind me, his hand reassuringly solid on my shoulder. For a moment she looked radiant. But then the coughing started up again. Deep, wheezing convulsions that shook her whole body. My hand slipped from hers and I turned, pressing my face into my father’s thigh as the nurse fussed, giving her small sips from a plastic cup, adjusting her bed.

Eventually there was quiet again, although her breaths were ragged and the machines around us beeped and buzzed. “Tristan. It’s over, see. You can look at me now.” Her voice was hoarse and raspy, and the glow she’d had a minute ago was gone, replaced by a waxy, greyish tinge. I wanted to scream. Where did my mommy go? I want her back!

“I need you to do something for me, Tristan. Something important.”

My eyes widened as I nodded eagerly. There was something I could do for her? Something that would turn her back into the mother I once knew? Anything!

“I need you to believe that I’m still here, even if you can’t see me. And that I still love you, even if I can’t hug you.”

I wanted to put my thumb in my mouth, so badly. But big boys didn’t suck their thumbs. I had to be good, to be brave. I wrapped my fingers around the aching digit. My mommy needed me. “Where will you be?”

She mustered a wan smile. “Everywhere, sweetheart. Dancing in the clouds, swinging from rainbows, skipping from star to star. I’ll be watching over you from every sunrise and sunset. You won’t be able to see me, but I promise—I won’t miss a second of the beautiful life you’ll lead. My love is that strong. And that’s what I want for you.” Her voice broke. “A love so strong you know its true. Does that make sense?”

It didn’t, not then, but I bobbed my head up and down. Her eyes fluttered shut, and I never saw them open again.

Pushing away the uncomfortable memories, I entered a few commands into my keyboard, made a show of rearranging the graphs and charts on my screens, wishing my emotions could be manipulated as efficiently. Forcing my focus back to Reina, I managed to swallow the golf ball-sized lump in my throat. “My mother is dead, and has been since I was five. Cancer.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” Reina put a hand to her throat, clearly horrified by her faux pas, but I waved away her apology.

I doubted I would ever be at peace with my mother’s death. With all the scumbags on the face of the earth, why was she taken? I rolled my shoulders, trying to dislodge some of the tension that had settled at the base of my skull, leaching into my muscles. In thirty-three years, I had yet to meet a woman that measured up to her standards. I was far from worried, but lately I’d wondered if finding a woman to share my life with would be more satisfying than just a succession of women to fuck. The trick was, which one?

“It was a long time ago.” I cleared my throat, eager to change the subject. “However, my stepmother would be quite pleased with your concern. I’m sure she’s planning another charity fundraiser at this very moment, thinking of all the different ways she can raise money for people she has no intention of ever meeting.”

Her eyes radiated empathy, and I could tell she was debating whether to ask me more. But to my relief, she accepted the detour. “You say that like you don’t agree with what she’s doing.”

“I would have to care to disagree.”

“Siblings?”

“Identical twin sisters. Pia and Mia. They’re twelve now, and I still can’t tell them apart.”

Reina blanched. “Wow.”

I grinned. “Let’s just say I wasn’t unhappy to leave for boarding school.” She laughed and I decided it should be required listening, every day. “You should do that more often.” As the sound faded, I stared at her open-mouthed smile. Again, that mouth. I couldn’t take my eyes off it.

“How about your dad?”

Another question from what was clearly an unending supply. “How about him?”

“Are you two close?”

My brows arched upward. “Will you be taking my medical history after this? I’d be happy to call my internist and have him send over my chart to save you the trouble.”

“Sorry, it’s a bad habit. I love learning other people’s secrets.”

Reina did not look sorry as much as intrigued. I shifted in my chair, considering. Anyone looking for skeletons always had a few of their own. “Your turn.”

Reina

Relief swept over me when Tristan walked to his desk and started jabbing at his keyboard. At first, I’d tried to pay attention to what he was doing, but to my untrained eyes, it looked like he was just moving things around on his screens. But what did I know? I studied the small pattern in the weave of the carpet, read the headlines of the papers splayed out on the coffee table. Tried to quiet my racing thoughts. Our conversation felt more like a date than an interview. A date I didn’t want to end. If he remained just inches away from me for much longer, I might not have enough self-control to keep from crawling into his lap.

It didn’t help matters that I’d lied again. A small one, but still. Bettencourt had been tied for applicants with Bull Capital, my father’s hedge fund. Needless to say, I didn’t bother sending Bull Capital my résumé.

Thoughts of my family had led to questions about his. I thought I was on safe ground. But no. Tristan had made a noble effort, but I knew that look. Heartache was a sharp knife, the blade all but hidden except to the most vigilant observer.

Out of sympathy, I’d let him turn the conversation to a less hazardous path, or so I thought. Now I was standing on a crumbling ledge.“Sorry. I don’t have any secrets. I’m an open book.” I bit my lip, knowing I’d spoken too fast. A rookie mistake. I eyed Tristan closely. Could he tell I was lying? Maybe I shouldn’t have asked to work directly with him. Maybe keeping my distance would have been smarter. Too late.

“Everyone has secrets.”

Why did the longest eyelashes I’d ever seen have to belong to a Bettencourt? “You know what, you’re right.” Instinctually, I reached for something, anything, to distract him from digging deeper.

“Tell me.”

“I nearly slept with my new boss.” The words escaped before I could consider their impact. I slapped a hand over my mouth. “Shoot. That was wrong. That was really, really wrong. We need to forget it ever happened, and I shouldn’t have brought it up again.”

Forgetting what I’d done with Tristan would be like trying to ignore the sun in the sky. It was right there, staring me in the face, so bright its existence was incontrovertible. I knew I would feel his hands on my breasts, and the way I had trembled against his mouth, until the day I died.

But Tristan had to believe I’d already forgotten every single searing detail, otherwise he’d never let me work with him. How could I explain being fired on my very first day?

“I guess I have a secret too.”

I jumped, eager to move past my slip up. “Do tell.”

“I have every intention of getting my new employee back in my bed. As soon as possible.”

My breath caught in the back of my throat and I coughed, eyes watering. “You can’t say that,” I sputtered, fumbling with the cap of my water bottle.

“I just did. And I meant it.”

Looking at his face, I knew he did. And a part of me leapt with joy. He likes me. He really, really likes me. And then I returned to earth with a thud. “You can’t,” I whispered.

“How about we make a deal? I won’t admit that I remember the taste of you on my tongue. Or the little purring noise you made just before you came.”

I blinked, several times. “And?” My voice emerged as a breathless whisper.

“You will stop trying to convince yourself that I’m never going to give you another orgasm. Preferably while I’m inside you.”

Tristan’s deal chased me the entire way back to Megan and my fellow trainees.

I walked into the room just as she was hanging up the phone with Tristan. He obviously hadn’t wasted any time notifying her of my placement. Megan was practically vibrating, as excited as everyone else was jealous. “Well this is just wonderful, Reina.” Her hands fluttered around her face, fanning her pert brunette bob. “Just wonderful.”

Clapping her hands together, Megan glanced around the room. “The rest of you will receive your first rotation assignments tomorrow and I can only hope you are all welcomed as warmly as Reina has been by Mr. Bettencourt.”

I pretended not to notice the sly glances that accompanied her comment as we headed out to lunch as a group. The remainder of our day was spent setting up email accounts and voice mail codes and being issued laptops and smart phones.

And all the while, echoes of my conversation with Tristan rang as loudly as the church bells of St. Patrick’s Cathedral on Fifth Avenue. So intrusive, they were impossible to ignore. We were dismissed before five, which I assumed would be the last time I’d leave the office so early. Tomorrow would be my first day as part of the Millennial Fund team, my first day working with Tristan, and I’m sure they didn’t run the hottest fund on the Street by clocking out early.

Killing time before I could slip into bed for what would probably be another sleepless night, I went to the gym, picked up my dry cleaning, grabbed takeout for dinner. Still, I was home by seven o’clock, the neon digits taunting me from every electronic device in my apartment. When my phone rang, I was grateful for the distraction, even after I realized who it was. “Hi, Mom.”

“Sweetie! How was your first day? Have you made any new friends yet?”

I rolled my eyes. My mother had stayed in touch, albeit sporadically, through the years. There was a part of me that ached every time we spoke, though. Since the day she walked out of my life, she’d never publicly acknowledged me as her daughter. She had built a new life with Van Horne and his kids, and he’d remained adamant that they never find out about me. The few times I’d attempted to press her, she defended his decision, ticking off his reasons. There was no love lost between Van Horne and his ex-wife, who would have been only too eager to use the salacious tidbit to trash him in the press. He was being vetted for the ambassadorship to Germany and a scandal might derail his hopes. Wendy was getting married, it wasn’t a good time to rock the boat.

My mother always had a reason I needed to stay in the shadows. I wasn’t her daughter, I was her dirty little secret.

Setting aside the tension that was always background noise between us, I simply said, “It’s not exactly like the first day of school.”

“Don’t be too sure. You know what they say, you learn everything you need to know in kindergarten.”

“Well, if that’s true, I’ve spent a lot of time and money getting a pretty pointless education.”

“Having the right contacts is priceless,” my mother trilled. The woman always had a clichéd slogan at the ready, an armchair psychologist with a degree from Dr. Phil.

If I told her about Tristan, the wedding planning would begin immediately. He had the kind of pedigree she drooled over, and I could just imagine the not-so-subtle hints she would toss my way. Various intonations of “Reina Bettencourt might make a welcome addition to the Van Horne family.” Well, too bad. If Reina St. James wasn’t good enough for the Van Hornes or anyone else, they could go screw themselves.

Despite my conversation with Tristan in his office, talking to my mother strengthened my resolve to keep things purely professional between us.

“Contacts didn’t get me this job, hard work did.”

“Of course, of course.”

Another annoying habit of my mother’s was telling everyone exactly what they wanted to hear. She avoided confrontation at all costs, and always had. To this day I’d never actually had an argument with her. There was no arguing with Gayle St. James, now Van Horne. The moment things got heated between us, like when she was defending her husband, she found some way to distract or appease. And if neither worked, she simply left the room, or the house. Or my life.

“Where are you?” I asked, changing the subject.

“Oh, just away visiting friends.”

My mother didn’t have friends, at least not close girlfriends. At the risk of sounding completely stuck up, I’d discovered first-hand that beautiful women rarely do. Visiting friends was code for traveling with Gerald. I wrinkled my nose. Even after all these years, I hated picturing them together. “Okay, have a nice time. I’ll talk to you soon.” Almost as an afterthought, I gave her my new number. Now that I had a phone from Bettencourt, one less bill to pay meant more money could be funneled toward my school loans. Technically, it was a work phone and not really meant for personal use, but the only person I ever talked to was my mother. For the few friends I stayed in touch with from school, we used apps like Facebook, Whatsapp or Skype.

I got into bed, spending a few minutes logging into Facebook and Instagram before checking my Twitter feed. I’d often heard that to get a good night’s sleep, one should avoid electronic devices for an hour prior to going to bed, but I could barely fall asleep without scrolling through social media first.

Until I saw the tweet from @BettencourtBets: Guess who scored the pick of the litter?

Holy shit. Were they referring to me? Singling me out as Tristan’s favorite already? I’d been following them since the account had popped up, especially knowing I would be applying for a job with Bettencourt. Until now, their tweets had never affected me personally.

And if anyone said they saw even the tiniest flicker of a smile, I would have called them a liar. Absolutely.

* * *

Bettencourt occupied five floors in a glossy skyscraper overlooking the Statue of Liberty. The Millennial Fund team was on thirty-three. Not quite 7 a.m., it was already a hive of activity. My eyes were drawn to Tristan immediately, but he was on the phone. Luckily, his assistant was on the lookout for my arrival. In the few minutes before Bettencourt’s daily firm-wide conference call, run jointly by the firm’s chief economist and a host of analysts, Stephanie showed me around. I quickly learned that the office Tristan had taken me into yesterday was mostly for show. He preferred to keep his eyes on the action from a desk in the middle of the floor. His headset was on, computer screens flashing, and yet it was obvious that he was fully aware of everything going on around him.

Tristan offered a brief, impersonal wave as we passed his desk. My lingering nervousness was soon replaced by a rush of energy as I was introduced to everyone working on the Millennial Fund team. There were more people than I expected in the group, which occupied nearly half the thirty-third floor. Most of his staff was young, and to my surprise, I recognized one of them.

“Professor Everett,” I exclaimed. An adjunct professor at Columbia, his class had been a highlight of my years there.

“Reina!” He swiveled in his seat, a broad smile spreading across his face. “I always knew you would wind up on Wall Street. Looks like you made it.” He turned to Tristan, now off the phone. “Before I came to work for you, I decided I needed a short break from running client money and got a gig teaching Investment Analysis. This girl right here was one of my favorite students.”

“And you were, by far, my favorite professor.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere.” He grinned. “But just call me Kyle here, okay?”

“Will do.”

Movement at the large table in the center of the room caught my eye. Stephanie was using a triangular speakerphone to dial into the daily economic forecasting call. A few team members apparently preferred to stay at their own desks and listen via headset, but most grabbed a notebook and pen and sat at the table. I hadn’t even been given a workspace yet, so I followed Kyle and sat down beside him. Moments later, the hair at the back of my neck rose as Tristan took a seat on my other side, a monogrammed cufflink winking at me from beneath the sleeve of his sleek gray suit. The man even made cufflinks look sexy.

The call moved more quickly than I would’ve expected. Though it was hard to focus given Tristan’s proximity, by the end of the call, less than an hour, I probably learned as much as I had in four years of school. Tristan didn’t take nearly as many notes as I did, but then again, neither did anyone else at the table. I was clearly the newbie.

After the call ended, the team spent a few minutes going over any news relevant to their fund and batting around investment ideas. Millennial’s strategy was similar to the one I’d used to win the Bettencourt-sponsored investment contests at Columbia, but on a much larger scale. Tristan’s philosophy was research-driven and ideas could be pitched by anyone—researchers, traders, marketers. But unlike my theoretical investments, Millennial’s bets were real, the actual dollar amounts blowing my mind.

Afterward, Tristan offered to show me around. “I give a much better tour than Stephanie,” he said, his voice light, but no less proud.

I shadowed him as he chatted with everyone on his team, often asking about their families or their hobbies, and introducing me to anyone Stephanie had missed. Tristan had a real connection with his employees and I could see they respected him both as a person and as a boss. IVy was no mere figurehead. “Before I show you where you’ll be sitting, I might as well take you to the supply room so you can get a few things. Pens, binders, Post-its, whatever.”

I have an aversion to Post-it notes, but I would have followed him anywhere. The supply room was on the other side of the floor and by the time we got there I was almost winded from trying to keep pace. “Do you speed walk in the office for exercise, or is this your normal clip?”

Tristan ushered me inside and closed the door, spinning me around and backing me up against it. “I was feeling impatient,” he growled.

My breath left my lungs in a whoosh, and I felt weightless. “Did you see the tweet last night?” I squeaked. “We can’t afford to do this.”

“Yeah, I saw it, and it was deliberately vague. But this, what’s between us, is damned impossible to ignore.”

His breath fanned my ear, sending a shiver through my entire body. I looked up at his face, his blue eyes as deep and rich as the midnight sky. Mistake. Big mistake. Tristan’s eyes should come with a warning sign. Hazardous. Will cause extreme heat. My lungs felt scorched, but I breathed deep anyway. “Tristan, I—”

“I know. We shouldn’t be doing this.” His expression said the exact opposite.

Barely two inches separated us, and if I was being honest with myself, that was the only thing that felt wrong about the situation. I wanted to feel the length of his body against mine, go skin to skin with the solid bulk of his muscles. I wanted him to crush my face to his own, kiss me until I couldn’t breathe. A slow burn ignited deep in my stomach and I felt an irresistible urge to have him inside of me. Now. My eyes pleaded with his, but what I was begging for . . . I didn’t even know anymore.

He gave a slow nod. “You’re right,” and stepped back. I nearly cried out from his absence, sagging slightly, although somehow I remained upright. “This isn’t how I want to have you.”

I blinked. Have me? “It’s not?” I should have been relieved. Tristan could have me all he wanted, but in a professional way. I could compile research, populate spreadsheets, organize presentations. I was willing—no, eager—to work hard and make personal sacrifices for the sake of my career. A career that would never get off the ground if anyone knew I was standing in the supply room closet with my boss, the door closed, oozing with disappointment that he wasn’t trying to get inside my skirt. I was a lot of things, but relieved wasn’t one of them.

Clearing my throat, I wrapped my fingers tightly around the doorknob. What now? “I’m glad we agree.” It was a bluff, a pathetic attempt to save face. And if it worked, I was going to need the nearest ledge.