by Lauren Layne
Sabrina’s been there through it all.
And for the love of God, please don’t turn this into some grand romantic story. Aside from an awkward make-out session in freshman year of high school, which we both declared almost unbearably gross, it’s never been like that between us.
Sabrina’s one of the most gorgeous women I’ve ever seen, and yet there’s not a lick of sexual chemistry between us. I love her like a sister. Hell, she even looks like my sister. We’ve got the same dark hair, blue eyes, olive skin, and shitty, shitty pasts.
Although, while my upbringing was somewhere between dismal and frustrating, hers was downright unbearable. Drug-addict mom, barely there dad, shithead brother. Made my foster parents and their blatant indifference seem kind.
“So let’s hear it,” Sabrina says, pushing her soggy Caesar salad around her plate. “You only drag me to this tourist trap with crappy food when you need to ask me for something and you don’t want Wall Street to know about it.”
I nod in thanks as the waiter brings another drink. He doesn’t ask if my barely touched burger is okay, probably because he knows how overcooked it is, how stale the bun is, and doesn’t want to deal with it. I don’t mind. It’s a liquid-lunch kind of day anyway.
“I need Vanessa Lewis.”
Sabrina lets out a long breath. “Damn. You don’t ask for favors often, but when you do, they’re whoppers. If you think I’m exclusive with the clientele I take on, Vanessa’s even more exclusive.”
“Why do you think I called you? I’ve called her office; she won’t give me the time of day, and I need her to. She’s the best damn defense attorney in the city. If she got Ray Iris off charges of that Ponzi scheme, she can get me out of bogus insider-trading accusations.”
Sabrina swirls her wine. “She only takes on clients she believes to be innocent. She likes to win, but only when she believes it’s truly justice.”
“Which is what this would be,” says a newcomer.
Sabrina and I both glance up to see Matt Cannon plop down on her other side.
“How the hell did you find us?” I ask.
“Please,” he says, reaching over, picking up Sabrina’s fork, and taking a bite of her salad. “You always come here when you’re in a mood. God only knows why.” He points the fork at the salad. “That is disgusting.” He washes it down with a sip of her wine.
“By all means,” she purrs in a dangerous voice that generally means die. “What’s mine is yours.”
“Really?” he asks, turning toward her, his gaze dropping to her cleavage.
“Go ahead. Try it,” she says. “I’ve been in a castration sort of mood lately.”
I wince. “Can you two kids pretend to get along, just until the end of this meal?”
Matt jerks his chin toward my plate. “What’s that?”
Wordlessly, I hand him the plate.
“Are we aware of the SEC agent at ten o’clock?” Matt asks, taking a bite of the burger without looking toward Lara’s table.
“Yes. We’re ignoring her,” Sabrina says.
I nod in agreement, though, truth be told, it’s taking every ounce of willpower not to glance her way. I refuse to give her the satisfaction, even if I’m starved for a look. Interaction. Anything.
It’s been three days since we went toe to toe in the conference room with only a Starbucks Frappuccino between us. A day and a half since the guys told me to steer clear of her.
And I’ve been aware of every damn minute.
Partially because it goes against my nature to sit on my hands and bide my time, but also because the sheer challenge of her makes me feel alive.
“Ian wants Vanessa Lewis,” Sabrina says, filling Matt in on our conversation.
Matt nods. “As he should. But I told him you couldn’t get her.”
I roll my eyes. He told me no such thing, but I know what he’s up to. A bull with a red cape waved in its face has more restraint than Sabrina when Matt issues a challenge. They’re two of my best friends, but their relationship with each other is contentious on a good day.
“It’s Vanessa Lewis,” Sabrina says in exasperation. “Her schedule’s booked up for years—”
“Isn’t that why everyone pays you the big bucks?” Matt asks, pulling her napkin off her lap and using it to wipe ketchup from his bottom lip. “Because you’re supposed to be the best at getting people what they want? Get Vanessa for Ian.”
“I am the best,” she snaps. “But I don’t just ‘get people’ because you command it.”
Matt shrugs. “Sounds like you can’t get her.”
“I—”
“Guys.” I hold up my hands. “This mutual hatred is exhausting.”
“I’ll make some phone calls,” Sabrina mutters, pulling out the red leather book she carries with her everywhere and making a note. “But you need a backup list, Ian. Despite what Boy Wonder here thinks, I’m not a magician.”
Matt nods. “Kennedy and I can help with a list.”
I’m barely listening. I’d finally given in to the urge to look at Lara’s table again, but she’s gone.
I try to tell myself that what I feel is relief.
I hate like hell that it’s not.
8
LARA
Week 2: Monday Morning
“It’s like I told you,” Kate Henley says in a smooth go to hell tone. “Mr. Bradley’s unavailable at the moment.”
“At the moment?” I ask in exasperation. “He’s been unavailable for nearly a week.”
“He’s extremely busy.”
“So am I,” I snap. “I was assured by Mr. and Mrs. Wolfe that I’d have this company’s full cooperation.”
“And you have our full cooperation. What can I do for you?”
The words are pure honey and completely belie her bite me expression that tells me I’m being fed a line. I inhale for patience. “You can get me a spot on Mr. Bradley’s calendar.”
“Of course.” She taps something on her keyboard. “How does next Thursday at four sound?”
“It sounds like a week and a half away.”
She folds her hands on her desk and lifts her eyebrows in a clear take it or leave it, but it’s all I’m offering gesture.
If I weren’t so frustrated by the woman, I’d admire her. Actually, scratch that. I do admire her. Kate’s not only Ian’s assistant, she also works for Matt Cannon and Kennedy Dawson, and she manages the three bullheaded, egomaniac investment brokers with more aplomb than I’ve seen any other assistant manage one, all while looking like a grown-up schoolgirl.
Kate wears her dark-brown hair pulled back with a simple headband. Her eyes are wide and brown and makeup free. Her blouses are primly buttoned to the top, her skirts always just below the knee. Last week, she was wearing honest-to-god Mary Janes.
Her appearance is all soft sweetness, a direct contrast to her personality, which can best be described as hard-ass.
There’s zero chance she’ll meet me halfway on this.
“Next Thursday would be great,” I say with a forced smile.
She nods and adds it to his calendar. “In the meantime, I’d be happy to answer any questions you have.”
“Yes, because you were so helpful when we met last week,” I mutter.
I’d sat with Kate for nearly an hour on Friday afternoon, and impressively, she’d managed to answer every single question with as few words as humanly possible.
You’ve worked for Mr. Bradley for five years? Yes.
Would you say he’s a fair employer? Yes.
Have you ever known him to correspond with any J-Conn employees? No.
Has Mr. Bradley ever asked you to lie for him? No.
“What about Mr. Cannon and Mr. Dawson?” As Ian’s closest confidants, they’re at the top of my interview list but thus far have been proving just as difficult to pin down as Ian himself.
I get it. They’re protecting one another. So I’ve been patient, biding my time by combing through every electronic and pape
r record with a fine-tooth comb last week.
I haven’t found crap—not a single thing we can use to connect Ian and J-Conn. Not that I’m surprised. The man strikes me as brash but not foolish. He’s not going to put anything incriminating in writing.
He might, however, say something to his best friends over drinks.
Kate is clicking idly on her keyboard. “I can get you on Mr. Cannon’s schedule next Tuesday. Mr. Dawson . . .”
I suck in another breath for patience as she takes her sweet time checking her bosses’ schedules. I’ve played this game just about as long as I can afford to. Any more of this and I’ll have to go over all their heads, which I don’t particularly want to do. The last thing I need is more hostility if I want to make any progress. I can play bad cop if I have to, but my record’s what it is because I use finesse, not brass knuckles, to get my way.
Kate’s phone rings, and she lifts a hold, please finger as she picks it up. I’m about to give her a finger of my own—a different one—when over Kate’s head, I see a familiar brown head moving toward his office, white Starbucks cup in hand.
It’s the opening I’ve been waiting for.
As Kate turns her attention to her computer screen, I dart toward the man, managing to step in front of him just before he can enter his office.
Kennedy Dawson’s brown eyes are cold and bored as he looks down at me. “Yes?”
“Mr. Dawson,” I say, extending a hand. “We haven’t had the pleasure of meeting yet.”
“Because there’s nothing pleasurable about it,” he responds, reluctantly shaking my hand.
Kennedy’s a very attractive man. For one, he has dimples. Really, really great dimples. Not that they’re present now, but I saw him laugh with Ian the other day outside the conference room. He wears glasses about half the time, like he is today, and it emphasizes the quiet, scholarly way he carries himself. His suits are classic, his ties never flashy.
My family’s got a bit of a classic movie obsession going for us, so let me put it this way: if Ian’s got Cary Grant’s swagger, and Matt’s got Paul Newman’s charm, Kennedy’s got the uptight brooding thing going for him, a little bit Humphrey Bogart meets Clint Eastwood. Yum.
In other words, I should definitely be feeling something when our palms make contact. Kennedy looks like every version of the one I’ve been dreaming about since I hit puberty. Quiet. Sensible. Safe. He’s the opposite of Ian Bradley, and thus exactly what I’m looking for.
I wait for the expected feminine awareness, and . . . nothing.
Not a zip, not a spark, not even a flutter.
He drops the handshake as soon as he can without being rude, and judging from the near-sneer on his face, I don’t think he felt anything, either.
“Can I help you?”
“Absolutely,” I say quickly, before Kate can get off the phone and run her usual watchdog interference. “I’d like a few minutes of your time.”
“To discuss Ian.”
“To discuss your knowledge of Wolfe Investments’ connection with J-Conn.”
“Talk to my assistant to schedule an appointment.”
He tries to step around me, but I sidestep with him, earning myself a glare. “I’ve tried, but I got the sense that you’ll be booked out as far as Mr. Bradley and Mr. Cannon are.”
“Well, there you go. If you’ll excuse me . . .” Another step, which I match once again.
“What are you doing right now?”
“I’ve got a meeting.” He’s a good liar but not good enough. He waited just a heartbeat too long to answer, telling me it’s an excuse.
I glance at my watch. “It’s 8:51. I’m assuming your meeting’s at nine, so I’ll keep you company until then.”
“Ms. McKenzie—”
“I could get a subpoena, Mr. Dawson. Or you could convince me I don’t need one. For any of this.”
He goes still, unapologetically studying me. “Five minutes.”
“That’s all I need.”
He unlocks the door to his office and makes an exaggerated inward motion for me to precede him.
I have to hide a smile, because the office is exactly what I’d expected. While the common areas of Wolfe Investments are all sleek and modern, Kennedy’s office feels like a step back in time to when men wore smoking jackets and the only corporate job for women was as a typist. His desk is a dark wood with ornate detailing. The chairs are mahogany leather with just the right amount of wear to be inviting instead of stuffy. Every nonwindowed wall is covered in bookshelves, and I’ve been in enough Wolfe exec offices in the past week to know they’re a custom addition.
“Problem?” he asks, stepping around his desk and setting his coffee on a coaster.
“Nope. Just trying to figure out where you keep the globe and antique chessboard.”
For a moment, I swear his eyes brighten in amusement, but he shuts it down, gesturing to a guest chair across from his own. “Five minutes, Ms. McKenzie.”
Right.
I sit and cross my legs, wishing I had something to write with, but that’s what I get for ambushing the guy. “Is Kate going to be pissed?” I ask, partially to ease him into the conversation but also because I really am curious just how much I’m going to pay for my little stunt.
This time he doesn’t bother to hide his amusement. “Probably. Might be good for her.”
“Yes, she’s very . . . regimented.”
“That’s one word for it.” He takes a sip of his coffee.
“She works for you, Mr. Bradley, and Mr. Cannon?”
“Yes. Which is something you could have found out without taking up my time.”
“How’d that come about, her taking on all three of you?” I ask, ignoring his grouch.
Kennedy sighs, drumming his fingers on the desk. “When Ian, Matt, and I were each promoted to director, we were given the opportunity to hire our own assistants. Kate had already been working as an office assistant for some of us junior guys, and she was the best.”
“And you all wanted her.”
“We all wanted the best.”
“So it was a competition thing?”
He gives me a bland look, takes another sip of coffee. “Did you come in here to discuss the hiring process of Kate Henley or to do your job?”
“This is my job,” I say, not remotely insulted. I’ve heard worse over the course of my career. So much worse.
“I thought you were investigating Ian, not Kate or me.”
“I am. And in order to do that, I need access to his world. Best I can tell so far, that’s you, Ms. Henley, and Mr. Cannon.”
“Impressive. A week on the job, and you’ve already cracked the code,” he says sarcastically.
I lift my hands in surrender. “Fine. You want to get to it, I can do it that way, too. Do you know anyone from J-Conn?”
“Yes.”
I sit up a bit straighter. “Who?”
He shrugs. “My dad plays golf with one of their senior directors. Ray Clouse. He came over to my family’s house for dinner back in the day. My sister dated a guy who worked on their product development team. I met him once or twice. First name’s Brian, I’d have to dig around for the last. One of my college buddies was on their sales team. Curtis Linder. I think that’s it.”
“Did Mr. Bradley ever meet any of these individuals through you?”
“No.”
“Did any of these individuals at any point indicate the company’s dire straits in the days leading up to their bankruptcy announcement?”
“My clients lost millions when they folded. What do you think?”
“I think that’s not an answer to my question.”
“No,” he snaps, with a pointed look at his watch. “Nobody told me shit; I haven’t talked to any of them in years. Your five minutes are nearly up.”
“We both know you don’t have a nine o’clock, Mr. Dawson, so you might as well settle in. It’s in Mr. Bradley’s best interest that you do.”
His brown
eyes narrow on me. “Why are you after him?”
“I’m simply following through on a lead. It isn’t like I’ve got a personal vendetta against the man.”
His thumb slides slowly up and down his Starbucks cup as he studies me. “You sure about that?”
“About what?”
“That this isn’t personal.” Kennedy’s voice is low and calm, but the jab couldn’t have hit more directly if he’d shouted it.
I’ve never been anything but 100 percent professional on a case, but I’m dangerously close to letting personal motivations creep in on this one. Not just because it could be my ticket into the FBI, but because I honestly can’t say that my opinions on Ian Bradley are solely work-related.
Still, I’m not about to admit that here, so I keep my voice impassive. “I was assigned to the case. I’m following up on the allegations that were handed to me by the SEC.”
“What about the accuser?” he says.
“I’m sorry?”
“You said you knew the allegations. But you don’t know who made the allegations, correct?”
“I can’t answer that.”
He smiles in victory. “You just did.”
I bite my cheek to keep from reacting. Get it under control, Lara. You’re better than this.
I skip right over what Kennedy thinks he knows. “Would you say Mr. Bradley’s skilled at his job?”
“Yes.”
“Better than you?”
“No.”
I lean forward. “And yet, you lost money over J-Conn. He didn’t. Why do you think that is?”
“Because that’s how this business works, Ms. McKenzie. You win some, you lose some. You want me to pull up a list of stocks I made out on when Ian lost? I can. Other companies he benefited from that I didn’t? I can do that, too. The only thing different about J-Conn is the scope of the loss.”
“It’s a big difference, though. You said yourself you lost millions. How did your clients feel about that?”
“Really fantastic, thanks for bringing it up,” he says with a bored look over my shoulder, as though I’m wasting his time.
I very well may be. God knows this is shaping up to be a waste of mine. Hell, for that matter, this whole case is starting to feel like a waste of time, and I really need it not to be. My boss has all but assured me that frying a fish as big as Ian could be the coup I need to make Quantico admissions notice me.
