by Lauren Layne
I take a deep breath to calm my storming emotions, then answer. “Dave. Hey.”
“Hiya, boy.”
I smile. Nearly two decades have passed since Dave Coving took me in when I was fourteen, but I’ve only ever been “boy” to him.
“What’s up?” I ask, lowering to my chair and spinning to look at the rainy morning. Of course it’s raining. All we need is an ominous clap of thunder, and I’d be inside one of those damn Netflix dramas.
“TV broke.”
I rub my forehead. “Did something hit it?”
He coughs, the sound devolving into a nasty smoker’s hack that has me wincing. “A bottle,” he says when the cough settles.
I roll my eyes upward. Shocking. “Phillies lost, huh?”
“They’re in a slump,” he grumbles. “Lost my temper at a bad call.”
I stifle the sigh. Let’s just say this isn’t the first time Dave’s lost a battle against his temper, and a bottle of beer and the TV paid the price.
And I pay for the TV. All of them.
It’s the least I can do. The man put a roof over my head for four years, a place to come home to during Christmas break from college, and he never lost his temper with me, which is more than I can say about the six foster homes that came before him.
“I’ll get you a new one,” I say, already reaching for a pen to make a note of it.
“Thanks,” he says gruffly. “I don’t need big and fancy. A little cheap one’s fine.”
“Sure.” We both know he’ll have the biggest flat-screen that can fit into his mobile home delivered tomorrow.
“So, what’s new with you?” he asks.
I hesitate. To Dave’s credit, he usually only calls when he needs something, but he doesn’t hang up the second he gets it. He stays on the phone long enough to check in. And what the hell, I let myself pretend he actually cares.
Usually I give him the highlight reel, sticking to my latest job coup or describing my box seats at Citi Field. Today, though, I hear myself giving him the real deal.
“The SEC’s on my ass.”
“The Ess-EE-What?”
“SEC. It’s an acronym for . . . let’s just say they’re Wall Street’s watchdog.”
“What’dya do?”
“Wish I knew,” I say, rubbing a hand over my neck. “Supposedly I got an inside tip on a tech company a while back, but it’s news to me.”
Dave grunts. “So, nothing to worry about.”
“There is if whoever’s making shit up about this ‘inside tip’ is a better liar than I am truth teller.”
“Bullshit,” Dave says on another round of hacking. “Since when do you just grab your ankles when shit gets rough?”
I wince. “That’s nice, Dave. Very introspective.”
“Intro-what?”
“Never mind.” I pinch the bridge of my nose.
“Look,” Dave says with a hefty sigh. “I ain’t your family. I got no right to lecture you, but you’re the most stubborn son of a bitch I know. You always got everything you ever wanted—haven’t you?”
Almost. Almost everything.
I don’t say it, though. I’m not sure there’ll ever be a good time to tell Dave how much I used to long for him to adopt me.
I smile a little at the memory. I was a stupid kid, thinking if I just talked a good game and never gave up, I’d be worth the adoption hassle.
Nope.
It’s cool, though—we’ve got a good thing going on.
“Hello?” Dave asks grumpily.
“Yeah, still here.”
“So you gonna fight this SPT or what?”
I smile. “SEC. And yeah, I suspect she’d like nothing more than a good fight.”
“She?” Dave laughs, a cackling, dry sound. “Hell, boy, why didn’t you say so? There’s not a woman alive you couldn’t get to do exactly what you wanted and have her thinkin’ it was her idea. Doubt this one’s any different.”
“She is,” I mutter, spinning idly in my chair. “She fell for exactly none of my bullshit yesterday.”
“Yesterday. You gave up after one day? Ain’t like you. You’ve always been stubborn as a mule, digging your teeth in, lighting a fire under every bush . . .”
I go still at his words, letting them sink in. Mixed metaphors aside, Dave’s got a point.
Persistence is my ace in the hole—the thing that’s gotten me where I am today.
Have I gotten so lazy, so complacent, that I’m giving up after a single afternoon of getting shot down?
Fifteen years in the foster system couldn’t keep me down. Nor could the Yale legacies who’d tried to make it clear I didn’t belong.
I get what I want by fighting for it. And what I want right now?
Lara McKenzie on her knees, begging me to forgive her for the false accusation.
Well, okay, the on her knees part is a different fantasy entirely. One I’m not completely ready to give up on.
“Dave, you’re a damn genius.”
“Yeah, yeah. So when’ll the TV be here?”
I shake my head with a grin, telling him I’ll get right on it. I hang up, then grab my desk phone to call my assistant.
Kate picks up on the first ring. “How’d the meeting with the Sams go?”
“’Bout like you’d expect.”
“Did they—”
“I’ll fill you in on everything later,” I promise, interrupting. “But first, any chance I can talk you into getting Dave another TV by tomorrow?”
“Oh, jeez,” she says, and I hear the efficient clack of her keyboard. “What happened this time? His favorite hockey player get traded again?”
“It was a baseball emergency.”
“Mmm. Okay, I’m on it. What else can I do? I feel useless, and you know that’s not my jam.”
I smile. I do know. Kate Henley’s been my assistant for five years, and I’ve learned that her tiny, tidy package hides an administrative powerhouse.
“No, nothing yet . . .” I break off. “Actually, yes. If you were trying to sell someone on the magic of overpriced Starbucks beverages—”
“Mocha Frappuccino, extra whip, extra chocolate shavings,” she says without hesitation. “You can’t go wrong. Your Tuesday barista’s Karen, right?”
“Yeah, but I’ll take care of it.” This is one challenge I need to undertake on my own.
“But—”
“If you’re fishing for shit to do, Matt started trying to manage his own calendar again. He’s got himself triple booked for three o’clock but is too scared to tell you.”
“Are you freaking kidding me?” Kate makes a hissing noise. “Okay. I’m on it.”
Kate hangs up on me, as I knew she would, and I text Tuesday-barista Karen, ordering two mocha Frappuccinos.
Lara McKenzie thinks she saw Don Juan yesterday?
She hasn’t seen nothin’ yet.
4
LARA
Week 1: Tuesday Afternoon
I’m pulling my stapler out of my box of office crap when there’s a knock at the conference room door.
I glance up, lifting my eyebrows in surprise when I see the last person I’d expect leaning against the doorway.
Ian Bradley’s dressed impeccably in a light-gray suit, black tie, and holding two frothy concoctions.
I click my stapler twice and study him, trying to figure out his game. His expression’s friendly, but his blue eyes are calculating.
“Mr. Bradley.”
“Ms. McKenzie.” He doesn’t move.
“Would you like to come in?”
He grins. “Would you like to put that stapler down?”
The moment I do, he steps forward and, setting one of the drinks on the table, slides it toward me with a flick of the wrist. If anyone else did this, the drink would tip and fall, but Ian simply makes the cup slide perfectly across the table and into my waiting hand.
I lift the Starbucks cup and study it. “Really. Bribery?”
“Barista made two
by accident. I could just give it to Kate . . .”
“Ah yes, your assistant,” I say, leaping on the opening. I’d met Kate Henley yesterday, and my initial impression of the tiny brunette was that she has one of the best poker faces I’ve ever seen.
Verdict after trying to coax her into conversation today?
The best poker face I’ve ever seen.
“She said she’s worked for you for five years,” I say.
“Mm.” He walks toward the window, looks down. “They gave you the shitty conference room. The other ones have a better view.”
“I’m not here for the view.”
“No, you’re here because of J-Conn,” he says, turning back around.
It’s a predictable play, fishing for information. Granted, he’s right. I’m here for J-Conn, and I’m not all that surprised Wolfe’s already put that at the top of their guesses.
But this isn’t my first rodeo.
I say nothing, instead watching him carefully for any signs of nervousness, finding none.
“Why now?” he asks quietly. “Why are you guys after me for a company that crashed ten months ago?”
“Didn’t say that we were.” He’ll find out he’s right the second I start asking questions, but that’s not today. And I have no intention of playing this game on his terms.
Not that this is a game.
But the way he’s watching me, and the Starbucks drinks . . . I can tell he thinks it’s one.
“Okay, well let’s say hypothetically you’re here because of J-Conn,” Ian says smoothly. “What would have to happen to put me on your radar?”
I set the cup aside without taking a drink. “Hypothetically, we’d have a source,” I say, telling him nothing he doesn’t already know. “Who’s alleged you had insider knowledge of the company’s future.”
“Who’s the source?”
I snort. “Really. You bring me an overpriced coffee and think I’ll just tell all?”
“Or you could swoon,” he says with a wink.
This time I roll my eyes. “I’d heard you were a womanizer, but I confess, it’s really hard to picture.”
“Yeah?” He crosses his arms and sits on the edge of the conference room table. “What have you heard? Maybe that I’m good with my hands? That when I’m with a woman, I always make sure she gets her—”
I hold up a hand. “Stop.”
Good Lord, is it hot in here? I resist the urge to undo a button on my shirt.
He smirks, then glances down at my ignored beverage. “Try the drink, Ms. McKenzie.”
“No thanks,” I say briskly, trying to remind myself that I’m Lara McKenzie with the SEC, not Lara McKenzie, Ian Bradley groupie.
He gives an exasperated sigh as though I’m an uncooperative child and stands and walks toward me. He stops a couple of feet away and, without breaking eye contact, picks up the drink I’ve set aside and holds it out. “Try it.”
“This caveman approach might work on other women, but—”
“Oh, I get it,” he interrupts, starting to set aside the drink. “You’re scared. You like your lines straight, your colors black and white, your coffee boring. God forbid you try something new, live a little—”
Before I can stop myself, I reach out and snatch the drink. My fingers brush his, and the contact is so unexpectedly electric I nearly drop the damn thing.
He shifts slightly closer. Not to crowd, or to intimidate, or to kiss, but for a whisper-quiet seduction that’s about a million times more effective than his pickup lines so far.
For a hideous moment, I want to lean in to him, to brush my lips along his jaw, to . . .
Well, hell, I realize with a jolt. The man really may be as good as his reputation after all.
I can’t let him know it. I won’t.
I stay put, giving a little lean of my own, letting my eyes lock on his as I part my lips and put the green straw in my mouth. I take a sip of the cold, wonderfully sweet beverage, and I let out an mmm noise unlike anything I’ve ever made in my life.
His eyes flare with surprise, then desire, and for a long moment I have no idea who’s seducing whom, who’s one-upping the other . . .
Ian gives a slow smile that crinkles his eyes. “Well played, Ms. McKenzie.”
“Back at you, Mr. Bradley.” I take a victory sip—it really is delicious. “You want to play sexy cat and mouse, I can play right back, and I’ll win.”
I turn away to resume unpacking my box when I feel his fingers wrap around my wrist, gripping hard enough to get my attention but not enough to feel threatening. “You won’t win, Ms. McKenzie. I’ve worked too damn hard to be found guilty of something I didn’t do.”
He’s good and pissed, and I take advantage, going for a surprise attack. “I know you weren’t in bed with Arnold Maverick,” I say. “But it doesn’t mean you weren’t in contact with him.”
Ian blinks. “Who the fuck is Arnold Maverick?”
Damn it, he’s good. He’s either a really good liar or . . . honest.
“Arnold Maverick was the CIO of J-Conn,” I say.
He thinks for a moment, then drops my wrist as recognition settles. “He was in the news. The tech guru who committed suicide a couple of months ago. That’s who you think tipped me off about J-Conn?”
I take another sip of my drink and let my silence do the talking. I’ll neither confirm nor deny . . .
To my surprise, instead of getting pissed and defensive, he smiles, back to charming Ian once again. “Let me see if I’ve got this straight . . . an anonymous source, who you won’t identify, is claiming that I got an inside tip from a J-Conn executive who’s now dead and can’t confirm one way or the other. Makes for a convenient accusation, doesn’t it?”
“We’re just following protocol, Mr. Bradley.”
“Fantastic,” he mutters, rummaging through my office stuff. “You know, I’m not the only one with lines. Mine may be of the pickup variety, but they’re a hell of a lot better than your evasive SEC bullshit.”
“That wasn’t a line—”
“Sure it was,” he says, grabbing a pen and a pad of Post-its. He scribbles something, drops the pen back in the cup, and hands me the sticky pad.
I look down as he stands. “What is—”
“My e-mail account information—work and personal. Eat your heart out. I have nothing to hide.”
I’m still staring at the Post-it in surprise as he saunters away, turning back after he opens the conference room door.
“Oh, and Ms. McKenzie . . .”
I look up.
“My personal account has a few naughty pictures in there. Enjoy those.” He winks.
Damn it. I hate knowing that I probably will.
5
IAN
Week 1: Thursday Morning
“Dude.” Matt slows to an easy jog beside me. “When you asked if I wanted to go for a run, you could have mentioned you were trying to set an Olympic record.”
“You’ve done four Ironmans,” I point out, catching my breath.
“Exactly. Because I like the swimming and bike shit. If I liked the running part, I’d do a marathon like Prefontaine up there.”
I slow my cool-down jog all the way to a walk. “Hey, Kennedy,” I call out. “Slow your roll.”
My other best friend doesn’t glance back, but I know he hears me because he slows his damn sprint pace to a walk, then stops and waits for Matt and me to catch up.
Kennedy’s not even breathing slightly hard, damn the man. We’re all in good shape, but of the three of us, Kennedy’s the runner. Matt’s all about the competition, and me . . . well, to be honest, I just like a good old-fashioned gym session, preferably with a hot female trainer.
Today, though, I’d talked the guys into a run with me. I see them enough around the office, but today I need them as friends not coworkers.
And there are no better friends than these two.
Matt Cannon, Kennedy Dawson, and I all came up with one another at Wolfe. W
e started the same year and worked the bullpen together, even as we were competitors. Investment brokerage is an up-or-out business—you either make it to the next level, burn out, or are pushed out.
All three of us had made it. We’re competitors still, fighting for the same clients, the same accounts, but friends in spite of it. Hell, maybe friends because of it. All of us are fighters in our own way.
Matt’s the brains. Younger than both Kennedy and me, he’s twenty-eight now, but everyone from the trading room floor up to the CEO penthouse still thinks of him as a boy wonder. The little shit skipped God-knows-how-many grades to graduate from Cornell at the age of nineteen, then took Wall Street by storm by twenty-two.
Lucky for Matt, the women of New York City know that he’s all grown up now. Blond, blue eyed, charming, and clever as shit, the guy’s almost as big of a manwhore as me.
And if Matt got here by brains and I did by sheer force of will and hard work, Kennedy Dawson’s a big dick on Wall Street because it’s just his damn destiny.
As dark haired as Matt is blond, Kennedy and his family have been in finance for for-fucking-ever, his trust fund big enough to ensure he could quit tomorrow and still have more money than Matt and I will ever see in our lifetimes, combined.
It’s more than the bank account, though. Kennedy’s old money, and it shows. His apartment’s got a goddamn library, his mother wears pearls, he only drinks single-malt scotch, he belongs to two different country clubs, and he looks like one of the Kennedys (whom he was named after).
He’s also a bit of a nerd. He gets way too into museums, and his idea of a wild Friday night is reading a philosophy tome and a World War II history book. When we do manage to drag him out on the town with us, I’m not sure he even notices the way women relentlessly chase him, swooning over the dimples that he thinks are ridiculous.
Matt drops into a stretch. “For real, what was with the double-time sprinting?” he asks me.
“If the SEC were on your ass, you’d be running, too,” Kennedy says.
“I was running.”
“Could have fooled me,” Kennedy says, leaning against the railing along the Hudson, looking every bit as polished after a five-mile run as he does in the office.
