by Lauren Layne
Matt shoots Kennedy the bird, then turns his attention back to me. “So what’s our plan? How do we clear your name?”
See that? Loyalty. Told you these guys were solid. Not once since this went down have they thought or implied I was guilty of anything other than shitty luck.
I brace on the railing and, dipping my chin to my chest, take a deep breath. “I don’t know, man.”
“Who’s your lawyer?” Kennedy asks.
“Dunno yet.”
“Damn it, Ian. You need a lawyer.”
I look up in irritation. “Yeah, thanks for the brilliant words of wisdom, Dad. I said I didn’t know yet, not that I wasn’t going to get one.”
“You found out about the investigation on Monday. Today’s Thursday. What the hell have you been doing if not lawyering up?”
“Flirting with the SEC,” Matt chimes in.
Kennedy snarls, “What?”
Matt gives me a shit-eating grin as I glare at him. “Kate filled me in. Dude, you bought her a Frappuccino? That was your grand plan?”
Kennedy braces both hands on his thick head of hair and turns in an agitated circle.
“We got off on the wrong foot. I was trying to make amends,” I say, defending myself as we start walking back toward our respective apartments.
“Bullshit,” Matt says. “You were trying to use the infamous Ian charm on her in hopes she’d go easy on your case.”
Kennedy’s arms drop. “Tell me he’s joking. Tell me there’s another explanation for why you haven’t made time to find a lawyer that doesn’t involve bringing the SEC whipped-cream concoctions.”
“In Ian’s defense, whipped cream has led me to many an interesting encounter with women,” Matt says, lifting his hands above his head in a stretch.
Damn it. Now a vision of Lara McKenzie wearing only whipped cream and her librarian glasses has me biting back a groan.
“Grandpa here’s right, though, about you needing a lawyer ASAP,” Matt says, his face turning serious. “Kate’s looked up every detail there is to know about this woman. She’s good. Doesn’t lose cases, doesn’t miss a beat, doesn’t screw up on a technicality. Doesn’t back down. Ever.”
“Sounds like someone we know,” Kennedy says with a pointed look in my direction.
“Right, because you two are so easygoing,” I snap, losing patience with the lecture. “Look, I’m working on it.”
“Work harder. McKenzie will send you to jail if she can, man.”
I rub a hand over my face as Matt punches Kennedy. “That’s not what he needed to hear.”
“He needs to take it seriously,” Kennedy snaps back.
Enough already. “I am taking it seriously. I know I’m in deep shit. You think I’ve just had my thumb up my butt the past two days? I’ve got a dozen phone calls out—”
“Don’t bother,” Kennedy says. “You need Vanessa Lewis.”
“Oh, definitely,” I agree. “Just as soon as I capture a unicorn.”
“You won’t know until you try—”
“I did try. You think I didn’t think of her first?” I say. Vanessa Lewis is the best white-collar defense attorney in the city, and everyone knows it. “Her office said she’d put me on the waitlist. You guys are good with numbers . . . Tell me, if I’m eighty-sixth on the list, how good are my chances?”
“A hell of a lot better if you got some help,” Kennedy says.
“Good plan, Dawson. I’ll just toss a few coins in a wishing well. Better yet, does anyone know a genie?”
“I was thinking more along the lines of calling the best fixer in the city,” Kennedy says.
Matt groans. “No. Anyone but—”
“I didn’t say you had to talk to her,” Kennedy points out.
The three of us have been walking as we talk, so we’re now outside my apartment building. I rock back on my heels a bit, contemplating Kennedy’s suggestion. “It’s not a horrible idea.”
One I should have thought of first, if I hadn’t been so distracted . . .
“It’s a damn good idea,” Kennedy says. “Call her. And for the love of God, do not talk to the SEC again until you get an attorney.” Kennedy’s already continuing at a slow jog toward his own apartment building a few blocks over. “Cannon, try to keep up.”
Matt glares at Kennedy’s back, then gives me a nod goodbye.
I lift my hand in farewell as I head into my lobby, grateful for the blast of air-conditioning. Grateful, as I am every damn day, to have a roof over my head to call my own—one I don’t have to worry about getting kicked out of the next day when someone tires of me.
Yeah, I know. Foster-kid issues. You’d have ’em, too, though. Trust me.
The lobby’s big and modern, the amenities state of the art. The building is fifty-eight stories. I live on the fifty-sixth. It’s not the penthouse, but hey, as we’ve already established, I thrive on challenges.
I open the door to my living room and toss the keys on the side table. My apartment is pure bachelor pad—big TV, black leather couch, sideboard, bar cart, big bed, the whole deal.
I pour myself a glass of water, downing it in three gulps as I check my e-mail on my phone. There’s one from a hookup a few months back that includes an NSFW subject line, a kiss-face emoji, and a picture of her on her bed. Naked.
I grin, remembering Lara McKenzie has access to my e-mail. That should blow her prudish little mind.
My cock twitches, and I realize my mistake—thinking of Lara and blow in the same sentence. Damn it.
What is it about her?
That I can’t have her? That she doesn’t want me?
I take a shower, in which I take care of business, if you know what I mean, picturing Lara McKenzie in nothing but whipped cream and glasses, then pull on boxers and an undershirt before heading into the kitchen to make coffee.
My phone buzzes. A text from Kennedy. Call her.
It annoys me, but he’s right. I need to get a lawyer, and not just a good one. I need the best one. I need Vanessa Lewis.
Kennedy’s also right that I need to ignore Lara McKenzie until I do so. I’d like to think I can stay out of any trap she lays for me, but I’d be an idiot to test my willpower with a woman who makes my blood hum like Lara does.
I scroll through my favorites until I find the number I’m looking for.
“Hey,” I say the second she picks up. “I need you.”
6
LARA
Week 1: Friday, Lunchtime
“So, do you think he did it?”
I tuck my cell phone beneath my ear so I can pull off my blazer. What started as a pleasantly warm morning has turned into a sweltering afternoon, and I’m keenly aware of my blouse plastered to my sweaty back.
“Too soon to say,” I tell my dad, shrugging my arms out of the sleeves of the blazer and rolling it into a tidy bundle to stuff into my purse.
“What’s the accusation?”
“Insider trading,” I say, keeping my voice low, even though nobody’s paying attention to me. The weekday lunch hour on Wall Street is everything you’d expect—plenty of suits and martinis and pretension. Nobody bothers to look twice at a woman in a boring blouse and four-year-old stilettos bought at Nordstrom Rack.
I don’t really mind, but I’ll confess that just once, I wouldn’t mind one of those high-priced lunches instead of a mediocre café with cheap sandwiches.
Since today’s lunch will likely involve a thrilling debate between dry turkey and boring tuna, I’m in no hurry to get off the phone with my dad. He’s been working a big case, so we’ve been playing phone tag for a couple of weeks. It’s good to hear his voice.
“Who’s the tip?” my dad asks.
“Fantastic question,” I mutter.
I practically hear my dad’s frown. “You don’t know?”
“Steve’s keeping it quiet. Confidential informant and all that.”
Steve Ennis is my boss. I’ve worked for the guy ever since I started with the SEC at twenty-th
ree, and up until this case, I couldn’t have asked for a better one. With the Ian Bradley thing, however, Steve’s been cagey, and it’s driving me crazy. I understand the need to protect witnesses in certain cases, but keeping the witness’s name from the investigator is a whole other frustrating level of classified.
My dad apparently agrees. “But you’re the investigator. How’re you supposed to do your job?”
I lift my heavy hair off my neck, but there’s no breeze today, so it does me no good. “Trust me, this is nothing I haven’t already told Steve. But those were the informant’s terms. We have to protect his privacy.”
“So you know it’s a him.”
I smile, because it’s so Dad—he’s FBI through and through. “Yes. Apparently, it’s a him.”
“Well, that’s a start. Surely with a little digging—”
“Dad,” I interrupt gently. “I don’t get paid to find the informant. I get paid to find out if he’s right.”
“Is he?”
I shrug, even though my dad can’t see me. “I told you, it’s too soon to tell.”
“What’s your gut say?” I hear the crunch of whatever he’s eating for lunch, and my stomach growls.
“It says it’s hungry. What are you eating?”
“Healthy crap with no taste. Now quit evading. What does your gut say about the case?”
“Who cares?” I say breezily. “Gut feelings can be wrong. My job is to find facts. Evidence.”
“Don’t discount intuition, Lara. If your mom and I’ve learned anything in the bureau—”
“Yeah, well, I’m not in the bureau, Dad.”
I hear him blow out a breath. “Not this again . . .”
I shouldn’t let my irritation show, but the more work experience I get under my belt, the harder it is to accept the wall my parents put up every time I mention my dream of joining the FBI.
They’ve always told me I can do whatever I set my mind to—that I can do anything any man can do, all that good, empowering stuff. Right up until the moment I told them I wanted to follow in their footsteps.
Instead of being encouraging, they’ve been . . . reluctant.
“I’m not asking you to get me into Quantico,” I say quietly. “I want to get there myself, on my own merits. But you and Mom both change the subject every time I mention it.”
“Lara, if you have kids someday, you’ll get it. Your mother and I are just having a hell of a hard time thinking about our baby girl going through combat training and target practice.”
“Skills I’ll likely never need in the white-collar division,” I point out. “The job will be pretty much just like the one I have now—”
“Then why not keep the one you have?”
I tilt my head back in frustration and gaze for a moment at the sky. It’s an old argument and an exhausting one.
“The SEC’s fine; it’s been great training, but I want to be FBI, Dad. You know this has always been the plan.”
“I know,” he says grumpily, resuming his crunching.
“Is it such a bad thing?” I tease. “Having your only child want to follow in her parents’ footsteps?”
“It is when our footsteps are dangerous.”
“Exactly,” I say, pouncing on the point. “You and Mom walk into danger every day, and I worry, but I’m proud of you. I want you to be proud of me, too.”
There’s a long moment of thoughtful silence.
“We’re proud of you.”
I stifle a sigh. I understand their protectiveness, but if I’m being totally honest, a little part of me wonders if they think I can’t do it—that I won’t be good enough. I’m not as whip-smart as my dad, not as hard-ass as my mom, and maybe . . . ah hell, I’m that girl. The one still trying to please her parents at age twenty-eight.
My thoughts are distracted as I see a familiar form crossing the street.
Ian’s been avoiding me since our Frappuccino moment on Tuesday, and I’m sick of it. I can do only so much with e-mails and reports and meeting minutes. I need to talk to the guy. Read him.
And today, for the first time in days, he’s without his guard-dog assistant.
Now’s my chance.
“Dad, I gotta run. Talk soon, okay?”
“Keep me updated on the case.”
“Will do.”
I hang up the phone and tuck it in my purse, quickening my pace so I don’t lose sight of Ian. A little stalker-ish, I know, but I am an investigator. Sometimes we get downright gumshoe for the sake of the job.
Ian crosses yet another street, heading toward the Hudson waterfront, which is . . . odd. The place is a hotbed for tourists and parents pushing strollers, not Wall Street elite. I’d have expected him to duck into one of the FiDi hot spots for martinis and caviar.
I don’t have to follow him long. He walks into a cheesy-looking restaurant called Vincedi’s that looks like its next New York health inspection rating will be questionable at best.
Definitely the type of place you’d meet with someone you didn’t want to be seen with.
I give it a couple of minutes, then enter the restaurant.
“Just one?” the chipper hostess asks, holding up a vinyl menu.
I nod and follow her to the table, keeping an eye out for Ian and hoping I spot him before he spots me.
The restaurant’s bigger than I realized, so it’s not until I’ve been seated, alternating between scanning the room and feigning interest in their “gourmet burgers,” that I spot him.
My stomach drops out.
As expected, he’s meeting someone. But from the looks of it, his interest in her has nothing to do with J-Conn.
Ian’s table is a corner booth, and he’s whispering into the ear of the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. The red dress is fitted to her perfect figure and is low-cut enough to show off impressive boobs without being yikes. Her hair’s long and black, her makeup flawless. She’s hardly the type of woman to be hidden away in a crappy, off-the-beaten-path restaurant, which makes me wonder if she’s married.
Why else would they be meeting so far away from the other beautiful people of Wall Street?
Then it hits me: I’m spying on Ian Bradley having a tryst.
I close my eyes in dismayed humiliation. Someone kill me now.
When I open my eyes, my stomach doesn’t just drop, it turns into a freaking roller coaster.
He’s looking right at me, eyebrows lifted in challenge.
For one of the first times in my professional career, I feel completely unsure of what to do. There’s no way I can play it off as a coincidence—judging from the food I’ve seen go by my table, this place sucks. And it’s not even cheap, so I truly have no reason to be here other than spying on him, which his smirk tells me he knows.
Is it possible to spontaneously combust from embarrassment?
I sneak a glance at the door, wondering if I can somehow escape with my dignity intact. When I look back again, Ian’s smile widens, and I realize that’s exactly what he’s hoping for: me to make a humiliated retreat.
Fat chance.
Without breaking eye contact, I shove aside my embarrassment, greet the waiter who comes over to my table, and order a Diet Coke and a turkey burger. Then I pull out a notepad and pencil from my purse and sit back in my seat, as though prepared to write down Ian’s every move.
I won’t learn a damn thing from across the room, but I can tell by the way his smile dims and jaw tenses that my unexpected fortitude pisses him off.
For the moment, that’s good enough for me.
7
IAN
Week 1: Friday, Lunchtime
“So that’s her,” Sabrina Cross says casually, taking a sip of her Chardonnay and unabashedly craning her neck to see Lara McKenzie watching us from across the restaurant.
“That’s her,” I say, finishing the rest of my Negroni. Apparently my idea of meeting my oldest friend at a diner-type place with mediocre food so we wouldn’t see anyone we knew didn’t acc
ount for the possibility of being stalked by the SEC. Go figure.
“She’s pretty.”
“Shut up.”
Sabrina laughs. “So you’ve already noticed she’s pretty.”
And this is the pain-in-the-ass part of remaining friends with someone who’s known you since you were eight.
Sabrina digs through the breadbasket on our table. “She’s very bold. She’s still watching us.”
“Yes, I know.” I can feel it. Somehow Lara McKenzie’s gaze has more effect on my body than any other woman’s physical touch. I’ve been in a constant state of want since our first meeting, with no relief in sight—I can’t have her, and I don’t want any of the women I can have.
I don’t know what the hell the woman is doing to me, but I don’t like it.
“She looks annoyed,” Sabrina says, taking a bite of bread.
“She probably is. I’ve been avoiding her.” Not that it’s been easy. Staying away from her’s been damn hard, but Matt and Kennedy are right—I’d be an idiot to tangle with the SEC before getting a lawyer on my side.
“I thought you said you were supposed to cooperate,” Sabrina says.
“You go talk to her,” I say, pointing a finger in Lara’s direction. “You’ll learn real quick she’s not the cooperative type.”
“Meaning she didn’t fall all over herself when you flashed your smile,” Sabrina says knowingly.
“Exactly,” I mutter, both relieved and annoyed that she’s getting a read on the situation so quickly.
In addition to Sabrina Cross knowing me like the back of her hand, courtesy of our long history, she also just knows people. Sabrina’s a fixer. She’s the person you call when you need help with . . . well, anything. Need a fake girlfriend? Call Sabrina. Someone to blackmail your wife so your wife will stop blackmailing you? Sabrina. Someone to sweet-talk a judge, put a rush on your passport, or get your delinquent kid into that prestigious school? Sabrina knows someone who knows someone who can help. For a price.
In my case, the price is friendship. Besides Dave, she’s the one person who’s as much a part of my new life as she was my old life. Sabrina’s the only person who’s ever really known both sides of me—the foster kid from Philly and the Wall Street hotshot.
