by Lauren Layne
Only the fish and his fleet aren’t cooperating. Either they’re a pack of damn impressive liars, more adept at destroying evidence and covering their tracks than any company I’ve come across so far, or the tip we received is bogus.
It’s not that I think Ian’s incapable of breaking the law. It’s that I think he’s too close with the people around him not to confide in one of them or have them put the pieces together. And while Kate and Kennedy, and I suspect Matt, too, would definitely cover for Ian . . .
I don’t get the sense that they are. They’re too genuinely ticked by my very presence.
Still, I try for one more question, knowing my time is limited, his patience at its end. “Mr. Dawson, I realize Mr. Bradley’s a friend as well as a colleague. I respect that. Which is why you need to understand that the best way you can protect him is to be honest with me about any connection he may have to J-Conn.”
He’s silent for a moment. “You want me to be honest.”
I nod. “Yes.”
“You want me to tell you anything about him that might be useful to you.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “Yes, absolutely.”
“All right, then. Maybe this will be helpful . . . I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so pissed off.”
“When?” I ask, leaning forward.
“Right now.”
The gruff statement isn’t Kennedy’s. It comes from behind me, and even if I didn’t already hear that voice in my dirty dreams at night, I’d know exactly whom it belongs to by Kennedy’s growing smirk.
Taking a deep breath, I stand and turn to face a very irate-looking Ian.
9
IAN
Week 2: Monday Morning
“My office. Now.”
I don’t bother waiting to see if Lara follows me—I know she will. She’s been panting after a meeting for days now and stalking me at lunch. She’ll follow.
My office is on the opposite corner of our floor from Kennedy’s. My long strides mean I beat her to it, but I stand by the door until she enters, slamming it shut and moving toward her until she’s backed up against it.
I don’t mean to. I’m not the sort of shithead who uses my title or build to intimidate people, but intimidating is not my angle here. I’m pissed.
Pissed that she followed me to lunch last Friday. Pissed that she’s interrogating my friends.
Pissed that of all the SEC investigators, I have to get one who makes my dick hard.
We’re both breathing heavily, and my gaze drops to her mouth just as she speaks.
“Step back, Mr. Bradley,” she says, her tone ice-cold as she glares up at me. “Now.”
I mutter a curse, slamming my hand on the door behind her head, then use it to push back away from her to a safe distance where I won’t want to press her against the wood and slide my hand beneath her skirt, seeing if her skin’s as smooth as it is in my fantasies.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” she says, coming farther into the office. Her tone is cool, her face impassive. Only the slight shake of her hand as she runs a palm over her ponytail belies that she’s as impacted by me as I am by her.
“Yup.”
“I had your company’s assurances that you’d cooperate, and I got the impression last week in the conference room when you brought me coffee that you were planning on doing exactly that. What changed?”
I realized I couldn’t be in the same room as you and not want to fuck you, that’s what changed.
I run my hands through my hair. “I was advised to get an attorney before speaking with you further.”
“Prudent,” she says, running a finger along the edge of the desk. “And did you?”
Much as I’m looking forward to seeing her face when she learns who my lawyer is, I decide to bide my time and ignore her question. “You get what you need harassing my friend?”
“I assume you mean Mr. Dawson. Yes, I had an illuminating interview with your colleague.”
I note her phrasing, chosen carefully to counter mine, and I roll my eyes.
“I’ve learned he’s fiercely loyal to you.” She gestures at the office. “And that you have incredibly different tastes in décor.”
I glance around my swanky office. It’s basically another version of my apartment—awesome view, sleek and modern furnishings. It’s exactly what people expect my office to look like. It’s also entirely replaceable. A tornado could wipe out the place, and I wouldn’t give a shit. That’s something I learned bouncing around from foster home to foster home—there’s no point in getting attached to things. Or people.
She nods, then points to a table behind my desk. “Is that real? The orchid?”
I glance over. “Yeah.” Her surprised look pisses me off again. “What?” I snap.
Lara blinks. “Nothing. You just don’t strike me as the type to have an orchid. They’re notoriously finicky and require a bit of coddling.”
“I can coddle.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I realize how ridiculous they sound and shrug. “It was a Christmas gift last year from Kate. She and Kennedy have a bet going over whether or not I can keep it alive an entire year.”
“Which way did she bet?”
“Let’s just say she checks on it about ten times a day and has forbidden Kennedy from doing anything to keep the damn thing from dying.”
She walks over and studies the flower. “Looks like you haven’t killed it. Yet.”
“You like orchids?” I ask, noting the wistful smile on her face.
Other than her boring taste in coffee, it’s one of the few personal details I’ve been able to glean from her, and I tuck away the fact. Why, I don’t know, other than some bizarre desire to know the woman hiding behind those professional walls.
“My late grandmother had quite a collection. One of the largest in the DC metro area.”
“You take over as the family orchid expert?”
Her smile disappears. “No. I tried, but . . . they take time I don’t have, attention I couldn’t give them. I learned the hard way it was the flowers or the job, and . . .”
She shrugs as if it’s no big deal, but I’d bet serious money it’s a bluff. She may think she’s okay giving 100 percent to the job, but it clearly eats at her.
She inhales, as though to gather herself, and motions to the chair by my desk. “May I? I have some questions regarding my case.”
Her crisp tone leaves me feeling like a fool. Here I am, musing about her love of flowers, and she’s viewing me as “her case.”
I give a curt nod and sit across from her, but before she launches into her questions, I fire off one of my own. “What the hell were you thinking, following me to lunch on Friday?”
If she’s taken aback by my candor, she doesn’t show it. “I’d hoped you were eating alone, and that I might get a moment of your time—since you’ve been avoiding me.” She gives me a pointed look.
“And once you realized I wasn’t alone?”
Her cheeks color, just a bit—so subtle I wouldn’t notice if I hadn’t been watching her so closely. “I thought she might be a source. Someone who could prove helpful to my case.”
I grin and call her bluff. “Bullshit. You thought she was my girlfriend.”
“Actually, no,” she says calmly. “I figured you and she were trying not to be seen together.”
“Why the hell would I want that?”
She shrugs. “Perhaps she’s involved with someone else.”
“Jesus Christ,” I snap. “It’s bad enough you accuse me of being a criminal, now I’m stealing other men’s women?”
“You forget I’ve been spending an entire week researching every facet of your life. The women you’re romantically connected to take up an entire legal pad.”
“But none of them is married!” I explode. I may be a son of a bitch, but I’ve got morals. I don’t take what’s not mine.
“So she’s not a girlfriend, nor a source.”
“No,” I growl. “She’s
a friend, and she’s got nothing to do with your BS case, so leave her the hell out of it.”
“A friend,” Lara says, her voice skeptical. “When she looks like that, and you look like that . . .” She breaks off, her eyes widening in horror as she realizes what she’s said.
I don’t bother to hide my grin as I lace my fingers behind my head and lean back in my chair. “I look like what, Ms. McKenzie?”
This time her blush is unmistakable. She uncrosses her legs, then crosses them again, and I grin wider.
“I’ve got to say, seeing you uncomfortable is the most gratifying thing I’ve seen in days.”
“I’m not uncomfortable.”
I lift my eyebrows. “You’re practically twitching.”
“Maybe it’s because you’re killing your orchid,” she snaps.
“Nice evasion, but some of us can manage the job and the flower.”
I mean it flippantly, but I regret it as soon as I say it, because if her cheeks were flushed before, now they’re white.
Shit. I’m an ass.
“Ms. McKenzie—”
“Save it,” she snaps, holding up a hand. “You know, I think we’d better save this meeting for another time.”
“Look, I’m sorry about the flower comment—”
“It’s not that,” she says too quickly. “I just don’t have anything to take notes on.”
“Horseshit. I hurt your feelings—”
“Please stop,” she says, standing. “That’s what I’ve been trying to make clear to you since the beginning. None of this is about feelings. It’s business. I’m on your calendar for next Thursday. If you can fit me in sooner, I’d appreciate it. I’m sure we both want to get this wrapped up—”
A knock at the door interrupts her.
“Yeah,” I say, my voice rough with irritation.
Kate pokes her head in, ignoring Lara altogether. “Mr. Bradley, Vanessa Lewis is here to see you.”
Lara whirls around, eyes wide and shocked.
It’s the moment I’ve been waiting for, and though I force a cocky grin, it feels hollow. I want to win this, obviously, to have the allegations disproven and my name cleared. But my winning means Lara losing. For the first time since this all started, the idea doesn’t fill me with victory.
“Vanessa Lewis is your attorney,” Lara says, her voice stunned.
It’s not just us on Wall Street who know Vanessa’s reputation for only taking clients she believes to be innocent. The SEC knows it, too.
I turn my attention back to Kate. “Send Ms. Lewis in. Ms. McKenzie was just leaving.”
“I was,” Lara says, lifting her chin, confidence restored as she turns on her heel and walks toward the door. When she’s shoulder to shoulder with Kate, she stops. “By the way, he’s overwatering it. Congratulations, it should be dead in no time.”
Kate gives a startled look toward the orchid, then an assessing look after Lara, who doesn’t turn back as she heads down the hall. “Is it weird that I might like her?” Kate asks.
No, I think.
What’s weird is that I know I like her.
10
LARA
Week 2: Wednesday Morning
“Lara, hi!” Steve Ennis looks up from his desk, blinking in surprise to see me standing in his doorway. “Thought you were at Wolfe today.”
“I’m headed there next. I just needed to pick up a couple things from my desk.” And was hoping to catch you.
I keep telling myself I’m paranoid, but I’m fairly certain my boss is avoiding me. I’ve sent him three e-mails in as many days, and he hasn’t replied to any. Nor has he returned my two voice mails.
“You got a minute?” I ask when he doesn’t invite me in.
“Sure. Sure, come on in,” he says, closing the folder he was perusing. “Shut the door.”
The difference between Steve’s office and Ian’s is almost comical. Both are fancy but generic office settings, but one’s from lack of budget, the other from lack of caring.
The SEC is the first category. For starters, the office is on the twelfth floor instead of the millionth. Steve’s got a corner office, but instead of looking at New York landmarks, we’ve got a grade-A view of another office and an apartment building with residents who decline to close their blinds more often than not.
The inside aesthetic is different, too. Fluorescent lights, scattered paper clips, a tired chair, and the perpetual smell of stale coffee.
My boss fits right in. He’s not a bad-looking man, but the ill-fitted don’t give a shit suit does nothing to flatter his ever-expanding middle, and his thick head of salt-and-pepper hair could do well with a haircut that costs more than twelve dollars on his lunch break.
That, or maybe I’ve spent too much time with the polish of Wolfe Investments.
“What can I do you for?” he asks as I sit and cross my legs. Is it just me, or does his voice seem too booming, too upbeat?
“You got my status report on the J-Conn/Bradley case?”
He nods enthusiastically. “Yeah. Sounds like a real toughie we lobbed at you.”
A real toughie? Not being able to find any evidence after more than a week of looking isn’t a toughie. It’s called not having a case.
“He let you at his personal files?” Steve asks. “Guy like that won’t put anything on the company servers.”
“He did. And his e-mail. I’m only about halfway through, but the chances of there being any useful information in there are slim.”
“You saying you think he destroyed something?”
“No,” I say carefully. It’s not like Steve to put words in my mouth. “I think in the six years I’ve been doing this, nobody has been stupid enough to leave evidence in their personal files. You know as well as I do that requesting the files is a stalling technique.”
His gaze sharpens a bit, his smile slipping.
I’m not insubordinate—I’m known as much for being easy to work with as I am for being tenacious and thorough. But something is going on here that I’m not fully informed on, and it’s starting to piss me off. At first I thought it was just some weird gut reaction messing with my head, and I don’t put much stock in instinct. However, the facts aren’t lining up, either. There’s nothing, and I mean nothing, connecting Ian Bradley to J-Conn.
Yet, I remind myself. Nothing yet.
“Look, Steve, you put me on this case because you trust me. I was at your wedding, for goodness’ sake,” I say, gesturing to the family photo on his desk taken a couple of years ago.
His third wedding, but who’s counting.
“I need to know why you think our source is reliable,” I say. “I need to know what you know. Who gave us the tip? What specifics did he tell you?”
He’s already shaking his head. “No can do.”
“Why?” I say, dangerously close to throwing my arms up in the air in complete exasperation.
“I’ve already told you, this is a confidential informant. It was part of the deal when he came to me. I am the only one to know his identity until it comes time for testimony.”
“Steve.” I gentle my voice and try for the soothing tone I use with nervous witnesses. “If the informant is too squirrelly to come forward now, what makes you think he’ll testify? You know how often witnesses lose their nerve when it’s time to put their name on paper. Being labeled as a whistle-blower is just as damaging to a reputation as being the criminal.”
If not more so. Wall Street disdains a cheater.
But they loathe a whistle-blower.
Though I’m never privy to the actual conversations, it’s not unheard of for big players to take matters into their own hands. Rather than come to the SEC with their information, they’ll go directly to the offender with a blistering do it again, and I’ll cut you off at the knees.
It’s considered a sign of respect among peers.
Steve’s source is either significantly beneath Ian in status and has zero authority to go toe to toe with him directly or he�
�s hiding behind the SEC.
I don’t mind. It’s what we’re here for. But it tells me we’re not dealing with someone with much brass. And those sources are the most likely to back out when it comes time to testify.
And if that happens, guess who’s stuck holding a broken case . . .
Me.
“It’s my reputation on the line, too,” I say quietly to Steve. I’m not going to beg, but I’m not going to be a pawn, either.
Steve gives an emphatic shake of his head and stands, indicating that the conversation is over. “You don’t need to worry about that.”
I stand and meet my boss’s gaze head-on. “You essentially told me that this case could be my high-profile win to warrant Quantico’s attention. If the investigation never gets past the informal stage, it’s not going to be high profile. It’ll be dead in the water.”
“It’ll get to the formal stage,” he says dismissively, going around the desk to the door.
“But that’s what I’m trying to tell you,” I say, following him to the door and trying to hide my impatience. “So far, it’s not warranting a formal investigation. I can’t find a single piece of evidence linking Ian Bradley to J-Conn or anyone with inside knowledge of J-Conn’s impending doom.”
Steve opens the door, my dismissal clear, but not without a parting shot. “Lara, you still want the FBI recommendation?”
“Of course.”
“Then find some damn evidence.”
11
IAN
Week 2: Wednesday Afternoon
Vanessa Lewis is the spitting image of Beyoncé, has the confidence to match, and thus is the hottest woman I know.
And one I’ll never hit on.
Why? One doesn’t hit on his lawyer. Even I know that.
Also, she’s not the one I want.
“Ian. Are you listening?”
I stop strumming my fingers against the mahogany wood of my desk as I realize I’ve been staring blankly at her the entire time she’s been speaking. It’s our second meeting. The one on Monday had been to take care of logistics—discussing her fee, signing her retainer, etc. This meeting is about my case, and I’m . . . not paying attention.
