by Lauren Layne
In some ways, though, knowing the truth makes it worse. After our spontaneous dinner date a week ago, I’d spent way too much time wondering what if.
What if I wasn’t investigating him?
What if he were innocent?
“Ms. Henley . . .” I break off, not sure what I want to say. Not sure of anything anymore.
She gives me a knowing look. “How about you call me Kate, I call you Lara, and you listen very carefully when I tell you Ian’s the last person who’d ever get ahead by cheating. This job is his entire identity—this world, the long hours, the fast pace, the parties, the money, all of it. It’s all he’s ever wanted, and I know he wouldn’t jeopardize it by taking a shortcut. Ever.”
“You care about him,” I say quietly.
Kate shrugs and stands, finishing her drink and tossing it in the trash. “Sure. But more important, I respect him. He’s one of the good ones.” She points a finger. “Put that in your weekly report.”
I feel strangely regretful after she leaves, like the room’s too quiet, my thoughts too loud. I find myself wishing that Kate could be right—that we could be friends after this is over.
An e-mail comes through from Steve, and I half-heartedly open it, figuring it’ll be yet another request for evidence I haven’t found, information that I’m not sure even exists.
The e-mail’s not what I expect.
L-
Did you check social media re: Bradley case?
-S
I set my drink aside and hit “Reply.”
Working on it. Most of my key players aren’t on social media. Been slow going.
His reply’s immediate.
Another tip just came through. Veronica Sperry.
“That’s great, boss. Don’t be cryptic or anything,” I mutter.
I Google her name, straightening a bit when her LinkedIn profile indicates she’s currently a technology consultant but she used to be a senior project manager at J-Conn.
Remembering Steve’s social media prompt, I look her up on Facebook, rolling my eyes a bit when I see that her account has zero privacy settings configured. I don’t get how people can leave every one of their personal photos open to any curious perv—or nosy SEC agent.
Then again, if I looked like Veronica Sperry, I might think differently. The woman’s gorgeous. Long red hair, wide blue eyes, and a teeny-tiny waist.
I click through her photos, which are mostly a collection of pouty selfies and carefully posed nights out with her girl squad.
Then I see it.
Veronica’s dressed to kill in a tight black dress at a glam party, judging from the gold balloons in the background and the glass of champagne in her hand. But it’s not the balloons or the champagne that interest me. It’s the man she’s wrapped around.
I glance at the date of the photo, and my stomach sinks.
The same man who told me last Friday that he didn’t know a single person from J-Conn had his tongue down the throat of Veronica Sperry the same month he sold his J-Conn stock.
Stunned, I slump back in my chair and take a sip of my coffee. But it no longer tastes so sweet.
15
IAN
Week 3: Friday Afternoon
“Dave, I’d do just about anything for you, but I’m not buying the Phillies.”
“But they’re for sale!” my foster father barks into the phone. “And you’ve got money.”
“Not that kind of money,” I say, spinning in my chair and flipping my pen in my fingers.
“They’re pretty bad this year. You could probably get a deal.”
I smile at the hope in his voice. The guy actually thinks I’m in a position to buy his favorite baseball team.
Even if I could afford to buy a damn MLB team (which I can’t), he knows full well I’m a Mets guy now. It’s a point of good-natured contention between us—he’s pissed I didn’t remain loyal to my “home team.”
My stance? The fewer ties between my life in Philadelphia and me the better—Dave, a few charities, and Sabrina being the only exceptions.
“Well, think about it,” Dave grumbles. “How’s the case going? They send you to jail, you let me know. I’ve got some guys who can look out for you.”
“Thanks, but I don’t think it’ll come to that.” I hope.
“You take my suggestion to seduce the lady agent?”
I smile. Lady agent. I wonder how Lara would feel about the moniker.
“I tried. Didn’t take. Trying to clear my name the old-fashioned way, though,” I respond.
“Hiring someone to take out the witness?”
I bring the phone away from my ear and stare at it a second. “I’m not in the mob, Dave. What the hell kind of movies have you been watching?”
“Well, what did you mean?”
“I meant that I’m trying to figure out who’s framing me.”
I hear a knock at my open office door, spin around, and still in surprise when I see Lara standing there.
“Hey, Dave, I’ve gotta run.”
“Sure, sure. Think about the Phillies, though, ’kay?”
“Yeah, will do,” I lie, because I know I’ll never get him off the line otherwise. I stand and slide my phone back in my pocket. “Ms. McKenzie, what can I—”
“You lied to me,” she says, eyes blazing as she storms into my office, slamming the door behind her.
I blink, startled by her fury. I thought we were in a better place after our impromptu dinner last week, but apparently we’re right back where we started.
No, we’re worse than when we started, I realize as I take in the angry woman in front of me. She might have disdained me before, but whatever she’s feeling for me right now goes well beyond that.
Well, that’s just fucking fine by me, because I’m a little pissed, too. I’m tired of this woman acting like I’m shit on her shoe.
“I’ve never lied to you,” I say, crossing my arms as she stops on the other side of my desk and sets a laptop in front of me.
“Really,” she says scathingly, pointing at the screen.
I brace both hands on my desk, leaning down to see what’s got her in a snit.
I recognize myself in a photo taken at a generic party I don’t remember, making out with a woman . . . well, honestly, I don’t remember her, either.
I glance back up at Lara. “You’re pissed that I went to a party . . .” I glance back down at the screen to check the date. “Nearly a year ago?”
“I don’t give a crap about the party,” she says, pointing at the computer. “I care about the fact that you’re making out with Veronica Sperry.”
“Who?”
Her eyes narrow. “Playing dumb is beneath you.”
“Well, acting dumb is beneath you,” I say, rounding my desk to stand face-to-face with her. “I have no idea who the hell Veronica Sperry is and why you care.”
“Veronica Sperry,” she says in a barely restrained voice, “is a former J-Conn employee. You told me you didn’t know anyone from J-Conn.”
“I don’t!” I shout, getting in her face. “I’m sorry I don’t immediately recall the face of every woman I’ve kissed at a party, probably after a few drinks.” I gesture back at the computer. “And from the looks of it, she was kissing me.”
“Yeah, you look really victimized there, Mr. Bradley.”
“There it is,” I say, lifting a finger to point in her face. “You’re not pissed because this woman’s from J-Conn. You’re pissed because I’ve got my hands on her.”
Her mouth drops open. “Surely we’re not back to that. You know, this God’s gift to women act is getting really old.”
I step closer so she has to tilt her head back to meet my eyes. “Tell me you’re not a little bit jealous,” I taunt. “That you haven’t wondered what it would be like to be in her shoes.”
“You’re delusional.”
“And you’re reaching,” I snap back. “I barely remember the party. I barely remember the woman!”
“Wow. I’d heard yo
u collect women like trophies. I didn’t realize you couldn’t be bothered to even remember them.”
Before I can think better of it, I reach out and pull her close. “I’ve never lied to you,” I repeat. “Now it’s your turn to tell me the truth. Why are you really pissed right now? Because you actually think this woman gave me the inside scoop on J-Conn? After fucking weeks of sniffing around without getting your precious evidence, I’d think you’d be thrilled. But you’re not, and you know why? It’s because this photo’s proof that while some of us have been enjoying our lives, you’ve been too busy coloring inside the lines, judging others, and living a lonely shell of one.”
Her mouth drops open, and I brace for a feisty retort, but instead, she blinks rapidly, almost as though she’s trying to keep tears at bay.
I could apologize—I should. But I’m still too pissed, still too frustrated by this woman and her determination to push all my buttons. And for what? For an SEC case that we both know is bullshit?
She pulls away from me and calmly shuts her laptop, pulling it to her chest. “I think we’re done here.”
“Like hell.” I reach out for her again, but she pulls her hand back.
“Don’t,” she says quietly. “Please don’t.”
I let her go, watching as she calmly leaves my office. I want her to slam the door. Hell, I probably deserve it. But she merely pulls it shut with a quiet click as she exits.
I stand still for a long time after she leaves, sucking in deep breaths in an effort to get my self-control back.
I’d accused her of being jealous, of wanting my hands on her, but the truth is, it’s me who wants her. Me who wants nothing more than to strip off that fussy jacket, shove up that prim skirt, and see if she’s as wet as I am hard from our sparring.
I swear and pull my phone out of my pocket, shooting off a message to Matt and Kennedy to make it a club night.
I need to get drunk.
And I need to get laid.
16
LARA
Week 3: Friday Night
“How about this?” I say, holding out a blue top.
Gabby looks up from where she’s rummaging in my dresser with one hand, glass of wine in the other. She wrinkles her nose. “What is that? A poncho?”
“It’s a flowy top,” I say, holding it against me and looking in the full-length mirror. “It matches my eyes.”
“Perfect, you can wear it to my aunt’s birthday party next week and she’ll love it, but you’re not wearing it tonight.” She holds up a tiny tank top. “What about this?”
“You’re in my pajama drawer. I sleep in that.”
“Yes, and if you wear it out tonight, you won’t sleep alone,” she says, giving the shirt an enticing little wiggle.
“Not all of us are models with taut, perfect skin,” I say. I take a sip of my own wine as I pull a dress out of the closet. “How about this? It covers my arms.”
“Oh, so it’s perfect for a club!” she says sarcastically. She points to the bed. “Sit. You’re wearing what I tell you to wear.”
I do as she says, mainly because my thoughts are too jumbled to manage even the simple task of finding an outfit. She glances at my near-empty wineglass and makes a tsking noise, then goes to the kitchen and comes back with the bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.
“Okay, what’s the little black dress situation?” she says after she’s topped off my glass.
I sigh and sip the wine. “There are two on the far right.”
She pulls them both out, then gives me an exasperated look. “These are funeral dresses.”
“They’re not!” I protest. “Well, okay, the one on the left is. But the lace one I got to wear to my holiday party my first year at—”
“Honey, no. I mean, good on you in that it looks like a government holiday party dress, with those long sleeves and flared skirt, but . . .”
“Wait, it has a V-cut back!”
“No. To both dresses,” Gabs says decisively, putting them back in the closet. “Jackie O wore dresses more revealing than that, and I’m taking you to Pearl, which means you need to show some skin.”
I groan and set my wine on the nightstand before flopping back on my bed.
She gives me a curious look over her shoulder. “Going out tonight was your idea.”
“I know,” I say, putting my arms over my eyes to block out the ugly fluorescent light. “But I’m rethinking.”
“Well, don’t,” she says, coming to sit beside me, patting my knee. “You had a crappy day, and you’re right to want to forget about it.”
“You weren’t there,” I mumble into my arms, reliving the awfulness in Ian’s office. “I humiliated myself.”
“Well, from what you’ve told me, he was an ass.”
“Yeah, but he was right,” I say, dropping my arms back to my sides in exasperation. “I was acting like a weird, jealous girlfriend. I should have done my homework before going in there. I should have asked that woman first if she knew Ian.”
Gabby gives me a sympathetic smile. “She got back to you?”
I stare at the ceiling and sigh. “Yes. She didn’t remember that night, either. Apparently, it was her bestie’s birthday, and they’d had martinis before even getting to that party. I showed her the picture, and she said, ‘Hot. Who is he?’”
“So then, not his source,” Gabby says.
“Nope.”
“Did you tell him?”
I give her a look. “Wasn’t quite ready for the I told you so lecture.”
“Well, Monday will be soon enough for that,” she says, clapping her hands and standing again. “Tonight, our only agenda involves vodka and flirting.”
“Easy for you to say,” I mutter. Gabby’s one of those effortlessly charming women who makes every man feel like the center of her universe when she talks to him. It also doesn’t hurt that she’s five nine with perfect proportions and cheekbones you could slice a steak on.
She pulls out a pair of jeans. “These are tight-fitting, right?”
I give them a skeptical look. “Yeah.”
She flings them at my chest. “Put ’em on. Now, where’s that slinky strappy top you wear sometimes?”
“I don’t think I own anything slinky.”
“Yes you do. You just usually wear it under one of those ugly boxy things.”
“A blazer?”
“Whatever.” She waves her hand. “It’s yellow and you look hot in it.”
“You’re thinking of my yellow silk shell, which is definitely meant to be worn under something.”
“Not tonight. Tell me it’s not at the dry cleaner’s.”
“It’s not,” I say. But the second she pulls it out of the closet, I wish I’d lied, because there’s no way I’m wearing this out in public. It’s got tiny spaghetti straps and a lace strip on both the top and bottom hemlines. It’s not tight-fitting necessarily, but it’s definitely low-cut. You don’t notice so much when paired with a blazer and slacks, but . . .
“On. Now.”
Arguing with her is pointless when she’s in mama hen mode, so I do as she says. I spread my arms to the side and expect her to see that I was right.
Instead, she grins. “Perfect. Almost.”
She walks toward me and gently pulls the band out of my hair. “Doesn’t your head hurt from wearing all this heavy hair in a pony all the time?”
“Better than having it in my face.”
“It’s your best feature,” she says, fluffing my hair a bit. “Now, let’s talk shoes. That’s one good thing about you spending all that time in fancy corporate offices. You’ve got nearly as many high heels as I do.”
It’s true. I do have a nice assortment of stilettos. I dress conservatively, but high heels are one area where sexy and business casual have plenty of overlap.
She selects a pair of strappy silver sandals and then practically wrestles me into a chair, where she applies a smoky-eye makeup look.
Gabby turns me toward the mirror. “Well?
”
I wrinkle my nose. “I don’t even look like myself.”
“Sure you do. You just don’t recognize this version, because she looks like she wants to have fun.”
“I have fun,” I protest.
She pats my cheek as she steps into her own platform heels. “No, sweetie, you don’t. But tonight, you will.”
17
IAN
Week 3: Friday Night, Late
“Remind me again why we’re here?” Kennedy asks.
“Because we want to get laid,” Matt says. “Well, I want to,” he amends. “You and Ian need to.”
It’s nearly midnight on Friday, and though we’re out at one of my favorite clubs, I . . . can’t get into it. I used to come here a few times a week, but I haven’t been out since before I met Lara, and now the whole thing feels wrong, like a suit that no longer fits quite right.
I take another sip of my drink, determined to get my life back, where things weren’t so fucking complicated, where a certain blonde SEC investigator didn’t have the power to hurt me.
Christ, is that right? Hurt?
Fuck this.
“He’s right,” I tell Kennedy, taking Matt’s side. “I need a woman.”
“Really?” Matt sounds surprised. “Because I’ve gotta tell ya, you don’t look like a man on the prowl.”
“More like Heathcliff,” Kennedy says.
Matt and I both look at him, and he sighs in disgust. “Never mind. So, we all know why Ian needs to get laid—to get over Sassy SEC. Why do I need to?”
“Because you’re a prig,” Matt says.
“Prig?” Kennedy repeats, eyebrows raised.
“And here you thought your pretentious vocabulary would never rub off on us,” I say, clinking my glass against Matt’s with a smirk.
Kennedy rolls his eyes and nods toward the dance floor below. “This is really great,” he says sarcastically. “What thirty-four-year-old adult doesn’t enjoy listening to deafening, God-awful music in the dark while wasted twentysomethings rub all over each other?”
“Hey, it’s not like anyone’s making you endure that,” Matt says. “We’re in the VIP section. Can we just do what we used to do? Find three hot women and forget our troubles for a while?”
