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

Reina

“Hello.” Up close, Wendy wasn’t nearly as pretty and delicate as she appeared on camera. Her features were harder, more pointed.

On the off chance she was just being polite, that she didn’t know who I was, I marshaled a polite, impersonal grin. “So nice to meet you, Ms. Whitaker. I’m here with Tristan.” I purposely didn’t offer my name. There was still a chance I could emerge unscathed.

“Are you with Tristan?” Wendy’s face was amiable, but that was probably the work of a plastic surgeon. Each syllable that emerged from her mouth was weighted with derision.

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

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

“Girlfriend? No, absolutely not.”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. Your mother no doubt taught you well; I’m sure he will be soon.” Her eyes were flat gray, like a shark’s.

No, no, no. I continued the charade. “Have we . . . ?”

“You can cut the crap. We’re practically family, after all.”

Family. The word sliced through me like a switchblade. Wendy Whitaker had been born Gwendolyn Van Horne, daughter of Gerald. My mother’s stepdaughter. My half-sister. Technically, she was a blood relative—but she was not my family.

I hadn’t realized she knew Tristan, but it shouldn’t have surprised me. Of course the children of two of Manhattan’s wealthiest fund managers would know each other. There was probably a special preschool just for Manhattan’s financial royalty, one where stealing other kids’ toys was encouraged to promote healthy competition.

I could practically feel my pupils dilating, and had to squint against the bright studio lights. My mouth opened but no sound emerged. What was there to say?

Wendy Whitaker, on the other hand, had no such problem and continued unabated. “At least you had the good sense not to follow your home-wrecking mother into her new marriage. I looked into her background years ago, when I was just a cub reporter at a local station.” She took a small step back, studying my features. “I’ve known Gayle had a daughter for years now, but until you walked on set, I assumed your name in the visitors log was a coincidence. You look just like her, you know.”

For the first time it occurred to me that Van Horne and my mother hadn’t just hurt me and my father. Their spoiled, selfish actions had torpedoed his family too, and I wondered if Wendy’s two siblings were as bitter as she was. At least she still thought I was the product of my mother’s first marriage, and not the result of Van Horne’s licentious, extra-marital affair. The truth of my parentage remained my secret. For now.

Wendy’s eyes traveled from my face to the pointed shoes I’d shown off just a minute earlier, then landed on Tristan, who had gotten waylaid and was now engaged in conversation with one of the producers. “But genes always win out, and you’ve obviously found a rich, attractive man to dig your claws into. Like mother, like daughter.” She pursed her lips, considering. “At least this one’s not married. That’s something, I guess.”

I fought against the tightness in my throat, knowing I should just walk away but entirely unwilling to let her have the last word. “I don’t know you, and I wouldn’t presume to comment on your character. But let’s get one thing straight—I am nothing like my mother.”

Tristan

Dread congealing in my stomach, I read @BettencourtBets’ latest tweet. Just catching sight of the account name made me cringe—Bettencourt was a goddamn hedge fund, one of the most well-respected in the industry, not some two-bit OTB shoved between a bodega and pawn shop in a rundown strip mall. Clicking on the embedded link, my jaw dropped as I watched several minutes of sparring between me and Wendy Whitaker, not a word of which related to Millennial. I turned to Reina, her own laptop already open, fingers tapping furiously on the keyboard. “Jesus Christ, you were right!”

Wendy Whitaker and her producers had cleverly spliced my interview into a series of questions and answers focused mainly on my personal life. It wasn’t particularly juicy, but I certainly didn’t come off as anyone’s first choice for investing half a billion dollars. “Tell me this isn’t going to air on their financial network.”

“No.” Reina swiveled her laptop toward me and played a different clip, one where I actually sounded like a hedge fund manager and not some charlatan with more money than sense.

Until a few minutes ago, my entire road show team had been in the room, but it was late, and the last one had just left. I was exhausted, but watching the heavily edited version of my interview had me all fired up. “I can’t believe Wendy pulled this crap on me.”

Reina yawned. “This isn’t the end of the world, Tristan. You’re a rich, good-looking, eligible bachelor. It’s not like she unearthed some secret from your past, and spread it all over the news. She’s just putting what everyone already knows into a bright, shiny package.”

I grunted. “In this business, it would be much better to be known for my stock-picking prowess than my dating status.”

“Yeah. That’s a problem too.”

“My dating status?” I eyed her skeptically.

She blushed, already backtracking. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”

“No. I want to hear what you have to say.” I braced myself. “Keep going.”

“Are you sure? I’m new, and your personal life is really none of my business.”

“Well, it should be.” I wanted my personal life to be very much her business. “So let me have it.”

“Fine, just don’t kill the messenger.” She looked down at her skirt, picking off imaginary pieces of lint as I waited for her answer. If she thought I was going to let her off the hook, she was wrong. When there was no lint left to find, imaginary or otherwise, Reina sighed. “You should be seen with someone who would make a good wife,” she finally blurted. “Beautiful, classy. Someone with a last name as well-respected as yours.”

Christ. “Have you been talking to my stepmother?”

Reina laughed, a delicious sound I wished I could record and play on repeat. “Nope, not a word. And somehow I doubt your stepmother would give me the time of day.”

She was right, of course. Reina’s independence, her work ethic—these were qualities my stepmother would never appreciate. But I did. “So I take it you’re not applying for the position?”

Reina jerked back as if I’d slapped her. “Hardly. But let’s face it—you’re stuck between a rock and a hard place on this one. If you’re linked with too many women, no one will take you seriously. And if you’re seen with the wrong woman, people will doubt your judgment.”

“Story of my life. Damned if I do and damned if I don’t. Tell me something I don’t know,” I deadpanned.

“I’m serious.” She extended her hands toward me, lifting them up and down. “Your whole package may have gotten you far with the ladies—”

“My package?” I asked teasingly, hoping to lighten the mood, but Reina didn’t take the bait.

“Call it what you want, but there aren’t many former hockey-playing hedgies out there who still make women fantasize about being pinned up against the boards.” As soon as the words left her mouth, it was obvious Reina regretted them. Bright spots of color bloomed on her cheeks, and she closed her laptop with a snap. “It’s late, I should go.”

I stood up at the same time she did. “I’d pin you up against anything, any time. In fact, I distinctly remember doing it already. Twice.” My cock sprung to life. “I’m not going to lie, I wouldn’t mind going for round three. I hear it’s a charm.”

Too bad Reina didn’t appear charmed. There were just inches between us, and I could have closed the gap easily, but not without a sign of interest on her part. She took her time responding. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. Not here.”

“We’re in a hotel room. Isn’t that what these places are made for?”

“Yeah, and on either side of these walls are men I work with, and hopefully will for a very long time.”

I leaned down. “Are you worried about keeping quiet when I make you come again?”

Reina tilted her face upward, her green eyes shooting sparks at me. “No. But you should be.”

Reina

The look of surprise on Tristan’s face made my heart skip a beat, and I was lost. Never mind that I’d just spelled out my reasons for keeping things platonic between us, at least for now, Tristan had a disconcerting way of overpowering my own instincts. Maybe he was right. Denying the heat between us was futile, so why was I fighting it? I curled my hand around his neck and pulled him toward me, savoring the feel of his lips on mine. Then I moaned softly, parting my lips and sliding my tongue against his. Giving in had never felt so good.

It had been a while since our last kiss, and if I thought I could control it, control Tristan, just because I’d been the initiator, I was wrong. Once Tristan’s breath was inside my body, I belonged to him. His fingers threaded through my hair, cupping my scalp, holding me at the perfect angle to receive his kiss. His other hand swept down my back, pushing me against him, cupping my ass, tilting my pelvis toward his. In his arms, it was impossible not to feel small and delicate, treasured. I broke away from his mouth, swirled my tongue along the skin of his neck. He tasted clean, like a blend of pine needles and Ivory soap, with maybe a hint of Tom Ford cologne.

I was wearing a conservative white silk blouse. The tiny mother-of-pearl buttons were slippery, and they didn’t enter or exit their respective holes with ease. Tristan didn’t even make an attempt, simply taking the two sides of my shirt in his hands and pulling. Buttons popped off, pinging against furniture before landing soundlessly on the carpet. I should have cared, it was one of my favorite shirts. But I didn’t. All I craved was the feel of Tristan’s hands on my skin, his lips on mine. Tristan unclasped my bra, flinging it to the side. Reverently he bent down, suckling at my breasts as he tugged on my black pencil skirt. It fell to the ground, followed swiftly by my thong. Tristan took a step back. “Reina.” My name sounded as if it had been wrenched from his mouth. “You’re so goddamn beautiful.” Taking in every inch of my body from head to toe, his eyes slayed me.

A flare of pride ignited in my stomach at the sheer lust in his gaze. Tristan didn’t just want me, he looked as if he wanted to devour me. And at the moment, there was nothing I wanted more.

He took a step toward me and I sat down on the bed, scooting myself to the center of it. “You don’t know how long I’ve waited to have you in my bed again.”

“How come only one of us is naked?” I asked breathlessly.

A smile drifted onto his face, as if we had all the time in the world. He picked up my right foot, tossing my shoe to the ground and massaging my instep, his thumbs rhythmically kneading my tender sole.

I groaned. “Oh my God. That feels so amazing.” For several long, delicious minutes, Tristan massaged my foot, stopping only to exchange it for my left. Eventually his hands travelled the length of my calf, kneading the muscles there, continuing behind my kneecap and up my thigh. His fingers were close. So close. Shamelessly I let my legs bow outward, tilting my hips toward his fingers. There was the merest brush of his fingertips before he grabbed my other ankle and repeated the process again. By the time his hands crested the top of my leg, I was mewling, begging. I wanted him on top of me, inside me. I had never felt so desperate, so needy.

Tristan Bettencourt was no mere boy, the kind I’d toyed with so easily in the past. I loved the fun of flirting, enjoyed the attention of an attractive man. But when it came right down to it—real intimacy scared the hell out of me. I wanted to keep my guard up, keep my mask on, except Tristan wasn’t making it easy. Everything about him was genuine, no veneer necessary. Tristan was one hundred percent pure alpha, and completely in control. His finger slipped inside of me and I jerked upward, desperate to feel more of him.

“Is this what you want?” he asked, his voice husky.

I groaned. “Jesus, yes. Please.”

Tristan rewarded me with a sensual smile, adding another finger as he stroked my clit with his thumb. An arrow of lust hit my core, exploding on impact.

Tristan

Finally, Reina was back in my bed, naked and writhing, exactly where I’d wanted her, exactly how I’d wanted her, since the moment she demanded to know my last name, only to catapult out of my apartment moments later.

Every breathy, needy sigh that left Reina’s mouth made my cock twitch, although I had no intention of letting him out of his zippered cage until I heard more than just sighs. Much more.

Aggressive knocking, however, was not what I had in mind. What the fuck? We both froze, looking at each other in stunned silence. Another round of knocking dashed my fervent hope that whoever it was would go away. “I have to get it.” Stating the obvious had never been so painful.

“I know.” Her juices clung to my fingers as I pulled my hand away and strode toward the door.

“Hey.” Kyle began speaking before I could look through the peephole. “I just heard from one of my buddies on the West Coast. We need to talk before the market opens.”

Inviting him in was not an option. With one last look at Reina and a frustrated sigh, I grabbed my key card and brushed past Kyle into the corridor. After the recent turmoil in the Asian markets, I couldn’t afford to blow him off. “Sure, buddy, let’s go get a drink.”

It didn’t take long to down a decent scotch and come up with a trading strategy that took advantage of Kyle’s intel. Even so, I knew Reina would be gone by the time I returned. When he suggested ordering another drink, I reluctantly agreed.

“So, have you slept with her yet?”

Kyle’s question took me by surprise, and I gulped down a burning mouthful to give me a minute before responding. “What are you talking about?”

Kyle chortled. “Hear-no-evil, see-no-evil. Is that what you want from me?”

“I have no idea what you’re referring to.” My denial sounded hollow, even to my ears.

“Jesus, Tristan. Don’t insult me. You can have any woman you want, but instead you’re banging some rookie you’ve taken under your wing. For fuck’s sake, that cliché has got Page Six written all over it. I don’t care how good your returns are or what your last name is—your sleaze factor will be right up there with Eliot Spitzer and Anthony Weiner.”

I slammed down my glass. Kyle might be my most trusted advisor, and one of the best portfolio managers I’d ever known, let alone hired, but when it came to Reina I didn’t need, or want, anyone else’s opinion. “Let this one go, Kyle.”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you to do.”

I leaned across the table. “That’s not going to happen.”

Kyle spread his thumb and fingers across his forehead and pinched them together, as if he was trying to pull his eyebrows off his face. “You could lose more than just money on this one. Whether you like it or not, you’re the face of Bettencourt these days, and accusations of sexual misconduct don’t look good on anyone. The blowback won’t just affect you and Reina. It will affect me, the team, the Millennial Fund itself, the Bettencourt brand. Are you willing to take that risk?”

Kyle was right. I was putting everything on the line for Reina. “I need you to trust me on this one. I don’t know how I know, but I do. She’s worth it.”

Reina

As the door closed behind Tristan, I should have felt saved by the bell. But I didn’t feel saved. What I felt was desperate, and sticky. Horny, too, although I’d always hated that word.

For a few minutes I considered waiting for him, naked beneath the sheets like a present he would open reverently after returning from the bar downstairs. But I quickly decided against it. I’d never been the type to wait for a guy, and even though Tristan was indisputably the hottest, sexiest, smartest man I’d ever known, I still wasn’t going to wait around for him.

And besides, I had research to do. The conversation with Wendy Whitaker had gotten me thinking. It had been a long time since I’d Google-stalked my mother and the man she left me for. And quite frankly, the BettencourtBets tweets taunts were striking a little too close for my liking. I didn’t want to admit my fears to Tristan just yet, but neither of us would come out smelling like roses if whatever was going on between us was outed in full one hundred and forty character glory.

Not bothering to put my underwear back on, I stepped into my skirt and shrugged into the blazer I’d tossed casually over a chair hours ago. Unsurprisingly, my defaced blouse was useless. Just twenty minutes before, ripping open my shirt had seemed so primal, but now I cursed Tristan for sending my buttons hurtling around the room. Burrowing beneath the bed and pawing the carpet in search of seven tiny pieces of shell, their color almost indistinguishable from the creamy rug, was definitely not sexy.

With all except one tucked inside my pocket, I stuffed the remnants of my outfit between the screen and keyboard of my laptop, and speed-walked from Tristan’s room to my own down the hall. I swear it was the longest minute and a half of my life. If I ran into any of my new colleagues, I would have been hard-pressed to explain my bedraggled, half-dressed state.

A quick shower later and my fingers were flying over the keyboard. Wendy Whitaker looked nothing like I remembered from the photos of my mother’s wedding, a glamorous young woman who seemed to have it all. Back then she’d still been Gwendolyn Van Horne. The Wendy Whitaker I met today looked like a caricature—her Botoxed forehead, too-thin nose, overly sculpted cheeks, and glossy, duck-pout lips set atop a toothpick body. With her blonde bob adding extra inches of width, in person it was hard to imagine how she kept her head on straight.

Wendy was the oldest of three. Her younger brother Bryce was about the same age as Tristan, and her sister Celeste wasn’t much older than me. None of the Van Hornes were press-shy, but besides the wedding, I could not find a single photo of any of the three siblings with my mother, even when they were clearly photographed at the same event.

I didn’t often feel bad for my mom. She’d left me for a billionaire who refused to even acknowledge my existence. By her own choice, I’d been relegated to the sidelines of her life. What kind of mother did that? But between meeting Wendy and my online snooping, I was realizing for the first time that his family hadn’t welcomed her with open arms. And if my sister was any indication, maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing that I’d never been forced into a relationship with people who clearly despised both my mother and me.

Little did Wendy know that she was sitting on top of a huge scoop—a scandal that would make any of her other stories pale in comparison. She had no idea I was technically her half-sister . . . and frankly, I hoped she never would. After being on the receiving end of her vitriol earlier today, I had no doubt she would exploit every seedy detail if it meant lashing out at my mother.

I’d wielded a shovel in my hands for as long as I could remember—either digging for half-truths and outright lies or burying secrets of my own. But I always thought that once I graduated college, got a job, and lived on my own, I would finally be free. That it wouldn’t matter who my father was or wasn’t. That the only thing I would need to prove was that I was good at my job. Period.

But I was wrong. As it turned out, I might not get to keep my job because I’d fallen in lust with my boss, and apparently someone could practically smell it on me and was taking perverse pleasure in dropping tantalizing hints for anyone with half a brain to follow. And after putting myself on Wendy Whitaker’s radar today, there was an all too real chance that she would discover the truth about our biological ties. Her nose might have been sculpted down to nothing, but I’ll bet she could still smell a scandal a mile away. And I’d watched enough of her interviews to know she’d somehow twist the truth to make me look like a social-climbing, money-hungry hussy in search of a sugar daddy.

Even if I still had a job at that point, Tristan wouldn’t give me a second glance. I would be relegated to mind-numbing back-office tasks until I resigned in defeat, and I’d sure as hell never feel the taste of his lips on mine again.

Tristan might be downstairs trying to solve some major financial crisis, but I had my work cut out for me, too. I needed to kick ass at Bettencourt, convince Tristan to start dating someone else to throw that damned twitter account off my scent, and figure out what to do about Wendy Whitaker.

Oh . . . And I had to get back into Tristan’s bed, and stay there until he delivered on his promise.