Hot Asset_21 Wall Street

by Lauren Layne

“Sounds tricky. Do I know him?”

  Lara takes a sip of her drink. “You know his type.”

  “Good-looking? Good in bed?”

  She laughs. “More like arrogant, stubborn, and really accustomed to getting his way.”

  I nod. “Ah, yep. I do know him. I can assure you he’s also good-looking and amazing in bed.”

  She rolls her eyes at my wink. “I’ll plead the fifth on the first, ignore the second altogether.”

  “You don’t have to,” I say before I can think better of it.

  Lara’s head snaps up. “What?”

  “Look, Lara . . .” I have the most annoying, unfamiliar urge to loosen my tie more. I can’t remember the last time I’ve been this nervous. “This thing with us, I know it’s complicated.”

  Her eyes are wide with panic. “There isn’t a thing with us. There can’t be.”

  “Why, damn it?” I snap. “Why, when this is all over, we can’t—”

  “Because you’re you and I’m me,” she says. “Even without the investigation, we’re a mismatch. You’re the life of every party, and I can’t even keep a flower alive.”

  The damn orchid again.

  “Lara—”

  Before I can speak, I smell a wave of sweet perfume, then feel arms wind around my neck.

  “Hey, Ian, baby. Haven’t seen you around for a while.”

  I turn my head just as a woman who looks vaguely familiar but whose name I’m not sure I ever even knew presses her mouth to mine.

  Shit. Shit.

  I pull back. “Oh, hey . . .”

  “Taya,” she says, winding a lock of hair around her finger and not looking the least bit perturbed she just kissed someone who didn’t remember her name.

  Good God. Was that my life?

  I look at Lara, braced for her disgust, but she merely looks resigned as she meets my eyes. “Point proven.”

  She stands, and my throat tightens in panicked frustration.

  “Wait, Lara—” I make a grab for her wrist but miss.

  And then she’s gone.

  18

  LARA

  Week 3: Friday Night, Later

  “Lara! Damn it, would you hold up a sec?”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Ian drop a wad of cash on the table and say something to Taya, but I’m already heading toward the exit.

  I luck out. There’s a huge group entering the VIP section. I slip out just before the mob moves in, but a dozen or so tipsy patrons block Ian.

  You want to know what I was doing back there?

  Great question.

  I want to know what I was doing. I’ve been wondering for the past twenty minutes.

  Here’s what I do know . . . when I looked across the VIP lounge just in time to watch Ian spill a drink all over himself, I felt alive.

  For the first time in a long time.

  I don’t know what it was exactly. Perhaps just sheer delight that someone so good-looking isn’t perfect after all.

  Or maybe it was the fact that after hours spent in front of a computer screen staring at names and numbers, I needed the visceral reminder that I’m dealing with real people in the real world.

  I’d told myself that I’d just take a second to apologize for my unprofessional behavior that afternoon in his office, and then I went and topped that with a whole other layer of unprofessionalism.

  If my boss found out . . . if anyone found out . . .

  Bye-bye, FBI.

  No recommendation letter from Steve, and I’d have to wait who knows how long for another opportunity like this one.

  Not that I’m wishing for Ian to be guilty. Quite the opposite. It’s just . . .

  Well, I’m all jumbled, in case you couldn’t tell.

  I’m nearly to the door when fingers wrap around my arm, pulling me back around. I lose my balance a little bit and bump awkwardly into Ian’s chest.

  He keeps me from stumbling, but the contact only makes me feel more unsteady.

  “You all right?” he asks.

  Damn him. He seems genuinely concerned, and that makes it so much harder to walk away.

  I mean, it’s not like I want to have a fling with the guy. I’m not the kind of girl who hooks up with guys like Ian.

  But . . . I like him. I like him a lot.

  He makes me laugh, and he challenges me, and . . .

  “I’ve got to go.”

  “I’ll help you get a cab.”

  “Shit,” I mutter. “I can’t leave Gabby.” I pull out my phone and text her.

  “I’ll walk you back to her table,” he says as I type. “Or back to mine. Or we can talk here.”

  I push at his chest in exasperation. “Don’t you get it? I’m SEC. You’re suspected of insider trading. We can’t do this.”

  His other hand comes up, catches my other elbow. “You don’t have to cushion the blow, Lara. If you don’t want to be seen with me because of the stain, you can just tell me. I can take it.”

  His voice is light and teasing, and a laugh bubbles out before I can stop it, my head dropping forward in defeat. Only he’s right there, so my forehead rests on his chest. I mean to pull back, but his hand moves from my arm, slipping under my hair to cup the back of my neck. He squeezes lightly, as though wanting to take away some of my tension. And maybe he can, because I let myself stay still, just for a moment, and I know it’s crazy, but when I pull away, I feel a little bit steadier.

  “Thanks.” My throat is dry, and I clear it, try again. “Thank you.”

  His hands fall away. “You’re welcome.”

  Our gazes lock and hold for a long moment, and I find myself wishing so badly that things could be different. That I wasn’t SEC. That he wasn’t Wall Street. That there was no investigation. That the stakes weren’t my dream career of the FBI versus his career and reputation on the line.

  I wish he wasn’t a notorious womanizer. I wish I knew how to flirt . . .

  My phone buzzes, and I glance down. It’s Gabby telling me that she’s going home with her ex but that they’re happy to share a cab back to the apartment to drop me off first.

  Third wheel. Just what I don’t need right now.

  I text her to tell her I’m fine—that I’ll get a cab on my own.

  I drop my phone back in my purse and look up at Ian. He smiles, but it’s a sad smile, like he knows what I’m thinking and he understands. Because he feels the same.

  “You good?” he asks quietly.

  “Better, yeah.”

  “You think people will recognize us.”

  I lift a shoulder. Yeah.

  “Say no more.” Ian beckons for my purse.

  I reluctantly hand it over. “I might have a Tide pen in there, but it won’t make a dent in your stain.”

  “You know, most women bring one of those small envelope-style purses to a club, not a suitcase,” he says, rummaging through my stuff.

  “Well, in case it wasn’t terribly obvious, I’m not exactly experienced at the club thing. What are you doing?” I ask in a panic as he pushes aside a tampon.

  He pulls out my sunglasses case and waggles it at me as he hands my bag back.

  “If you’re checking to see if they’re designer, I assure you they’re knockoff.” I stop short of telling him that some of us make a five-figure salary, not a seven-figure one like him.

  He ignores me and opens the case, pulling out the sunglasses. Then he slides them onto my face and grins, clearly pleased with himself. “There. A disguise.”

  I use one finger to pull the glasses down my nose an inch and give him a look over the top of them. “Seriously? It’s almost one a.m.”

  “People will think you’re famous and wonder who you are.”

  “Fantastic. Because I was really hoping they’d stare more.”

  He jerks his chin toward my purse. “So, about that Tide pen . . .”

  I shake my head. “No chance. But if you’re embarrassed . . .”

  After a quick glance to see we’re in the
shadows near the emergency exit with no one around, I step closer and button the top button of his dress shirt.

  Yes, that’s right. I’m re-dressing Ian Bradley.

  I try to keep it casual, almost maternal and businesslike. But then my fingers accidentally brush against his throat, and we both have to pretend not to notice. Or at least I pretend. Maybe he really doesn’t notice.

  I pull out his pocket square—because yes, the man’s wearing one—and tuck the corner into the neck of his now buttoned-up shirt so it fans down over his chest in a ridiculous diagonal square.

  Did I mention the pocket square is lavender?

  “There,” I say.

  He looks down and smooths a hand over the purple silk. “This is nice. A really manly look.”

  I nod in agreement and push the sunglasses back on my face. “Like a man bib. Too bad you weren’t wearing it earlier to catch the spill.”

  He looks at me expectantly. “All right. Are we disguised enough to Bonnie and Clyde our way out of here?”

  I want to. So badly. But . . . “Ian.”

  He sighs. “I’m thrilled we’re on a first-name basis, but I’m not digging that tone.”

  I lift my eyebrows. “Do you even know that tone?”

  “I’ve heard of it once. Rejection, is it? Never happened to me. Till now.”

  I open my mouth, wanting to tell him that I’ve never felt the way he makes me feel before, but no words come out. I don’t know if I’m smart or just a coward. But when he presses the pad of his thumb gently against my bottom lip, I know I’m a fool.

  He gives a quick smile. “Come on. Let’s get you a cab home. I’m pretty sure your friend’s gonna be a while.” A moment later, he ushers me out into the warm night air.

  “How’d you know the alarm wouldn’t sound?” I say, gesturing at the emergency door.

  “They turned off the alarm a few months ago. Too many drunk couples stumbling outside to make out.”

  “Speaking from experience?”

  He winks. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  “I think I already do,” I grumble.

  “Now, now, Ms. McKenzie,” he teases. “Have we learned nothing today about making assumptions?”

  “So you haven’t come out that side door and made out with club bunnies?” I ask.

  “Nah, I have,” he says, stepping toward the sidewalk and lifting a hand to hail a cab.

  “Right,” I mutter, unable to keep the grumpiness out of my voice.

  “For what it’s worth,” he says, not looking at me as a cab pulls to a stop in front of us. “When I make out with you, it won’t be against the wall of a seedy club. And I will definitely remember it.”

  “What do you mean, when?” I say, staring at his profile. “I told you—”

  He puts a hand over my mouth and opens the cab door with the other.

  “Where do you live?” he asks, lifting his hand from my face so I can answer.

  Too confused to think clearly, I give him my address, which he relays to the driver before motioning me inside.

  I pull off my sunglasses as I climb into the back seat. “Ian—”

  He puts a playful finger against my lips. “That’s Mr. Bradley to you. For now.” He winks and shuts the door.

  I turn around as the cab pulls away from the curb and watch as he lifts his arm, hailing another cab for himself. When it stops, he turns toward me and grins, as though knowing I’m watching him.

  He fades from view as my cab takes a right turn, and I flop back against the seat, shaking my head. “Unbelievable.”

  But I’m smiling.

  19

  IAN

  Week 4: Monday Morning

  I look up at the knock on my door, and though I love Kate Henley like a sister, I feel a stab of disappointment that it’s not Lara. And because she’s like a sister, Kate totally calls me on it.

  “I saw that,” she says, waggling a finger at me as she comes into my office. “You sulked.”

  “I don’t sulk.”

  “Not usually, no. Just apparently when your crush isn’t here.”

  “Is this conversation optional?” I mutter, turning back to my computer screen.

  She settles into the chair across from me. “You’re sulking and grumpy. That’s usually Kennedy’s gig.”

  “I’m not grumpy.”

  “Little bit,” she says, holding up her fingers.

  “You know I can fire you, right?”

  “Not without Matt’s and Kennedy’s agreement.” She smiles sweetly as she crosses her legs and settles in. “Now, tell Kate alllll about what’s bothering you. Relationship problems?”

  “Go away.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” she muses, as though I haven’t spoken. “You don’t do relationships.”

  I look at her. “I do relationships.”

  “Um, no. Matt sometimes does. You, never. I don’t think Kennedy even knows how to date.” She furrows her brow.

  “That’s bullshit. I’ve had girlfriends.” One. Sort of.

  “You’re thinking of Anne? That was four years ago. And it lasted for, what, two weeks? Barely counts.” She looks down at her pale-pink manicure. “So, about Lara . . .”

  My gaze sharpens. “Since when are you two on a first-name basis? You’ve been calling her ‘the SEC’ for weeks.”

  She waves this away. “Keep your enemies close and all that. Plus, she’s one of the only females in this place, and ovaries bond with ovaries.”

  “Nope. Out,” I say, pointing to the door.

  Kate doesn’t budge. “You can’t be thinking of seducing her.”

  I sit back and allow myself to ask the question out loud that’s been on my mind all weekend. “Why not?”

  “Because she’s not like one of your usual women,” she says incredulously. “She’s not some party girl out for a quick lay. Hell, Ian, she’s not out for a lay at all. Not with you. Not as long as she’s investigating you.”

  Just what I need, another person reminding me that Lara’s off-limits.

  “Was there something you needed from me, or were you just here to deliver the lecture?” I ask with a bit more bite than usual.

  “It’s Dave’s birthday next week. Want me to get him something? Spare TV?”

  “Nah, see if you can get season tickets to the Flyers. Best seats you can find.”

  “I thought he liked baseball,” Kate says, making a note in her phone.

  “He likes anything where yelling, beer, and junk food are encouraged.”

  “Hockey it is.” She taps a few more times. “It’s Lara’s birthday next week, too,” she says, not looking up from her phone.

  I jerk to attention. “It is?”

  She looks up and grins. “I have no idea. Just wanted to see if I was right about your interest in her, and I totally am. Ask her out.”

  I close my eyes. “Kate. You’re giving me whiplash. You just said I couldn’t ask her out.”

  “That’s when I thought you just wanted to sleep with her. Now I know that you like her.”

  “Jesus,” I mutter, running my hands through my hair.

  “No wonder you’ve been moody,” she says, leaning forward. “Have you kissed her yet?”

  “Bye, Kate,” I say, waving her toward the door.

  She studies me. “Have you ever even been on a date, Ian?”

  “Of course I’ve been on a date. I date all the time.”

  “Really.” She sits back and crosses her legs. “When and where was the last date you went on?”

  I mentally run through my recent encounters with women. The last being . . . well, hell. Now that I think about it, I haven’t actually gotten laid in weeks.

  That can’t be right.

  “And I’m not talking about sex,” Kate drones on, reading my thoughts as she so often does. “I’m talking dinner. Drinks. Conversation. A date that wasn’t just a stepping-stone to sex.”

  I think. And think. And realize that perhaps the closest I’ve come
to anything remotely resembling a date in years happened at that restaurant with Lara after she got stood up. And again at the club.

  I look at Kate. “You want to go out to dinner with me?”

  She laughs. “Nope. I don’t date my bosses.”

  That’s definitely true. Kennedy, Matt, and I made a pact years ago that Kate was off-limits, little-sister territory. Not because she’s that much younger than us, but because we adore her.

  And all three of us know she deserves better than any of us can offer.

  Still . . . I give her a playful look. “But if you did date bosses, it wouldn’t be me, would it?”

  Her laughter dies, and she gives me a warning look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Right on cue, Kennedy strolls into my office, pausing briefly when he sees the back of Kate’s head. “Am I interrupting?”

  “Yes, and thank God for it,” Kate says with a last warning glare for me.

  Kennedy ambles toward my desk, dropping into the seat beside Kate. “What are we talking about?”

  Kate leans toward him and loudly whispers, “Ian’s trying to remember the last time he went on an actual date.”

  “That would be never,” Kennedy says without hesitation.

  Kate nods. “Exactly.”

  “Guys, my love life is not open for discussion.”

  “You don’t have a love life,” Kennedy says, flipping through e-mail on his phone.

  “Well, neither do you,” I say, thoroughly out of patience with this whole thing.

  He doesn’t look up from his phone. “I’ve had relationships.”

  I see Kate go slightly stiff at this announcement, though Kennedy doesn’t seem to notice. Then again, he doesn’t seem to notice much as far as Kate’s concerned. It’s like he’s got a blind spot. He’s fiercely protective of her—we all are—but he also keeps her at arm’s length, almost as though he’s wary of her. And it bugs her, I think.

  “What relationships?” I ask him.

  He shrugs. “I date women from my social circle.”

  Kate’s mouth drops open. “Your social circle?”

  “You know what I mean,” he says, still distracted by his phone.

  “Not really,” she says.

  “People . . .” He waves his hand. “People I grew up with. People I know through my parents and schooling.”