Page 51 of No Knight (My Kind of Hero #3)

Ryan

Equal responsibility. Can he really mean it?

“And I’m thinking the easiest way for you to help me, and for me to help you, is by proprietary investment.”

“Um, what?” Weren’t we just talking about babies, not business?

If he knew about the past, he wouldn’t trust me with his money.

He wouldn’t trust me with his child.

I push those thoughts away as he slants me a look that’s pure indulgence.

“I know you don’t need me to explain the term to you.”

“I know what it is,” I retort. “They’re kind of the cowboys of the finance world.”

“Some might say so. But I generally don’t give a fuck for the opinions of others, especially where money is concerned. Besides, I won’t have to worry about reputations with you at the helm.”

“At the ... I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He seemed so sincere about parenting. And now this? It’s not baby brain that’s making it hard to keep up with him.

“I thought about setting up a hedge fund. But honestly, the regulations here in the UK are tough. The whole process would be a total ball ache. A lot of paperwork, and hoops to jump through. Headaches and legalities. Plus, these things take forever to set up. And you’re at a loose end now.

” He opens his hands. “This is the right way forward, I think.”

“The right way forward is a prop fund? Right for who?”

“It’s not perfect, but it’ll work. For now. As for who, this will be a prop fund with me as your only investor.”

“Matt, I can’t take your money—you can’t do this.” He’s already done way too much for me.

“ Let me shoulder some of the responsibility in the ways I can. ”

Is that what this is? Or is it an act of charity?

“I think you’ll find I can. I know I can. Have, in fact. I’ve been working on this for weeks.”

“But why?” I press my hands to my cheeks as though their burning doesn’t answer that question loudly enough.

“It’s good for a portfolio to have diversity. You don’t think I have all my money in Maven, do you?”

“I don’t know.” I heard Maven mostly deals in real estate.

Big deals. Billion-dollar stakes. Stately homes, phallic towers, and vast urban developments.

Not daily trading. That’s small potatoes.

Isn’t it? “I don’t know what you do with your money, but I do know you’re no rube.

You must already have reams of people investing on your behalf. ”

“Not in the field I want you to invest in. On my behalf.”

“So get someone with a track record,” I answer. “Don’t do this for me.”

“For you. For me.” He pauses, his expression hardening. “Do you think I haven’t checked you out? That I haven’t done my due diligence? We’re having a baby together, sure. But that’s not why I’m investing. Shit, Ryan, you should be asking why not you.”

“I don’t need you to tell me I’m good—I know I’m good. Which is why it’s been so hard to accept my situation. Why won’t those fuckers return my calls?”

“Come on,” he almost cajoles. “You know why.”

“I don’t. But I can surmise.” And I have surmised. I just didn’t want to acknowledge the truth. Because it feels like one more thing out of my control.

“Stinky Pete.” Matt lifts his whiskey as though in a toast. But he’s not toasting Pete, so what could he be ... “Shall we fuck him up?”

“For revenge?” Something blooms instantly inside me. Is it excitement or alarm?

“We could do it just for shits and giggles. Or we could do it because he’s a misogynistic twat who deserves what’s coming to him.”

“There’s more than just him to consider.” There’s Annabelle. Why would I hurt her?

“And if we really want to do it well, we could get the SEC involved.”

“Then you’d be ruining livelihoods.” But he’d do that for me, make Annabelle lose her standing and her town house. But the people I worked with would also lose.

“Maybe, but not mine. And not yours,” he says casually.

“This isn’t you, Matt.”

“Because I’m a nice guy?” His jaw tautens and his gaze turns flinty, but the change is fleeting, as his expression clears and he adds, “It’s just food for thought. Of course, you might want to do it yourself someday.”

“Do I strike you as the vengeful type?” I ask him quietly.

He gives a shrug, and ugliness bubbles up inside me. Because I have ugly. There’s a side of me that no one sees. A part of me I keep on a very short leash. But the joys of retribution are short lived. Revenge might be sweet, but it weighs heavy on the soul, I know.

I have a choice—I always have a choice. And my choice is not to live that way.

Not ever again.

“I think he’s probably done now, anyway,” he adds. “You’re out of his reach. His little range.”

And under Matt’s arm. At least, metaphorically.

“He’s tried his best.” Matt sighs. “And I’m sure his mother still loves his disappointing face.”

“I hope Annabelle has an affair with her personal trainer,” I say, swiping up my glass. So it seems I’m not quite done with ugliness, though I’ve tried to ignore the fact that he was at the bottom of my unanswered emails and calls that rang out. Low-life bastard.

“You can do better than that.”

My head jerks up, as though Matt heard. “I am doing better than that,” I retort. “Let him live in the past and plot revenge. I don’t dwell, and I don’t think of him.”

“That’s something I’d raise a toast to.” He toys with his glass but doesn’t lift it yet. “And the other ... my proposition?”

I put down my wine and roll my lips together as I allow myself a moment to look long into his play.

There are pitfalls, sure. Emotional ones.

He’s already offered me so much, but at what cost?

To me? To him? On the financial side, the worst that could happen is I underperform—which I won’t—and he takes his investment elsewhere.

Which would leave me right where I started.

Across the table, he cants his head, his eyes so gold right now. He’s like a cat watching a mouse tread carefully around a pretty cheese-laden trap.

“You invest for yourself. Why not for me?”

“It’s not the same. I’m just doing it to make up for lost salary.” And to keep myself sane.

“What are your numbers like? I heard you say double figures , but what’s the exact number?”

“I’m up twenty-three percent since I started.”

“Those are good numbers,” he says, with an impressed tilt of his head.

“I know” comes my somewhat cocky answer. “But my track record isn’t long. If you want to know how I did at Dreyland—”

“That I already know.” He taps the side of his nose. “Due diligence.”

If he knew the real me, knew what I’ve done in my life to be where I am, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.

“Twenty-three percent,” he repeats. “Reckon you can do that for me?”

“Matt, please.” Stop tempting me with your pretty words and your pretty mouth.

“We’ll start with an initial investment of two million.”

“I haven’t invested two mill of my own,” I say quickly. Because I don’t have that kind of money available. Is that like pocket change to him?

“But you’ve done it for clients.”

“Clients of a hedge fund. That’s a different game. A different kind of investing—rarely is it personal wealth.”

“But if you had two million of your own to invest, would you let someone else run those plays?”

“No,” I answer immediately as my palms begin to itch. God, I want this, the old Ryan pushing at me. The girl with an instinct for a good deal.

“That’s because you know no one can do it like you.”

“With the backup, the office systems, the quants and stuff. But this? It’s a lot of money, a lot to gamble with, which is essentially what you’re asking me to do.”

“At a rate of twenty-three percent? I’ll take that gamble. Let me invest two million with you.”

Under the table I ball my hands into fists. I want to—it’s so goddamn tempting. I love what I do, what I did, but this is essentially another favor he’s doing me. One I can’t hold at arm’s length by paying him rent.

“If not you, I’ll just take the money elsewhere.”

“Not to a prop fund, you won’t.”

“Well, not your prop fund. Think about it, Ryan. It’s not the mode that interests me. It’s the returns.”

“What would you expect from me?”

“Have I expected too much from you so far?”

I give a tiny shake of my head. He’s demanded nothing but given so much. “It’s not just the returns, though.” It’s not the real reason we’re having this discussion.

“No strings, Ryan. I’m investing in you. I have faith in you .”

Faith. It’s such a small word with a huge meaning. Fuck it.

“What are the terms?” I demand, looking up. Like a fish unable to resist a pretty lure.

“Two million, no drawdowns. We cap the risk at two hundred grand. Lots capped at twenty.” Which means I’m not getting the money in small, drawn-down amounts.

I can hit the ground running. It also means an individual investment can’t go above ￡200K, as a way of protecting his money.

Smart. Plus, I can make a maximum of twenty investments at my discretion.

“The risk?” I demand next.

“I’ll bear it.”

“And the profit split?” My heart begins to beat. If he makes it ridiculously beneficial for me—or worse? Then I’ll tell him to shove it up his ass.

“Sixty-forty.” He makes a gesture with his hand. “To the trader, obviously.”

My heart does a little two-step beat. That’s not terrible.

“Seventy-thirty,” I counter with an imperious lift of my chin.

He pretends to consider it for a moment, when I cut in.

“And I’ll want to revisit that when I get you to twenty-three percent.”

“You drive a hard bargain, teacup.”

Is he impressed or amused as his mouth curls almost reluctantly? Whatever it is, the moniker falls directly into my lap, thrumming away down there. Sensations, so many of them. Thoughts and feelings and fears and gratitude, none of which I can afford to lift the lid on.

“Those are my terms.” I’m so glad my answer doesn’t betray my internal world. “Your money. No other clients. I work on behalf of you only.”

Matt leans across the table, holding out his hand. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

“Good.” My smaller hand meets his, excitement and pleasure flowing through my veins.

“Tell me something.” He puts his hand over mine, effectively trapping me. “Tell me anything.”

“We’re still playing that game?”

Until I know all your secrets, his eyes seem to say.

Not in this lifetime.

“Oh!” I press my free hand to my stomach before my attention snaps up. “The baby just moved!”

“Really?” His eyes wide, he drops my hand and rounds the table so fast. “This the first time?” he demands, dropping to his knee, his words full of wonder.

“I ... yeah. I’ve had these kind of tiny butterfly sensations, but nothing like this,” I say, feeling a twinge that I haven’t shared this with him. But our kitchen encounter ...

“Can I—can I feel?”

His tone is so sweet. I nod and swallow as he allows me to take his hand and press it where I felt that flurry.

A beat passes. Two. Three.

“Nothing.” He stares down at my stomach, his smile not quite holding.

“It’ll happen again—more and more,” I answer quickly, trying to reassure him.

“Course it will.” His expression turns soft. Then bright as his head jerks up. “I felt that!”

“Me too. It feels like a goldfish bumping the side of a plastic bag.”

“We’re not calling him David Swimmer!” The words bound out of him delightedly. “How about Flipper,” he says, staring down.

“It’s gender neutral, I guess.”

“Flipper, you and your gorgeous mommy just made my day.”