Hot Asset_21 Wall Street

by Lauren Layne

  “Why are you so convinced that he’s not?”

  “Because there’s no—”

  “Evidence. Yeah. I saw the report. I’ve also met this guy once or twice, so I’ve seen him in action.”

  I clench my teeth. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Steve sighs as though I’m being obtuse. “It means that from here on out, you’re off the case. You did good work, I know you did your best, but—”

  “No ‘but,’” I interrupt. “I did good work, I did my best, and there’s no evidence. You only have your anonymous source. To ensure the case goes our way, we’d need another witness. And that’s if your source even agrees to testify—”

  “He’ll testify. Regardless, it’s no longer your problem.”

  “But—”

  “The conversation’s over, Lara,” Steve says, with more irritation than he’s ever directed at me. “I’d have thought you’d be happy with this. Even though I’m taking over the case myself, your participation in the early stages means your name will be associated—”

  “I don’t want it to be associated.”

  “If you want into the FBI, you sure as hell better.”

  I sit back, stunned at the implication.

  He stands. “If you care at all about your career, you’ll drop this case.”

  I stand as well. “Or what?”

  Steve blinks in surprise. “Excuse me?”

  “I drop this case, or what?”

  “Lara, you don’t want to cross me on this.”

  “See, that’s the thing, Steve. I think I do,” I say, setting my palms on his desk. “I’ve played by the book every step of the way, and I expect the same from everyone I work with.”

  He laughs, a harsh, dismissive sound. “You’re what, twenty-eight? You don’t know shit about the way the world works.”

  “Then enlighten me,” I say. “Explain to me why, without a shred of evidence, we’re launching a formal investigation.”

  “Evidence can be . . . uncovered.”

  I’ve never understood the phrase blood running cold before, but I get it now, because that’s absolutely what happens when he says those words.

  “What are you not saying?” I ask, careful to keep my voice steady.

  When he looks back at me, he seems defeated and completely unlike the man I thought I knew. “Just stay out of it, Lara. The world’s not going to fall apart if we make an example out of a slick Wall Street suit.”

  “No. I’m not going to sit back and let you take down an innocent man.”

  He runs a tired hand over his face. “Please. I’m asking you to do me a favor. You don’t have to lie. Just keep your mouth shut and bide your time until I get can you into the FBI.”

  I stare at my boss for a long moment, my heart sinking as I realize what I have to do.

  29

  IAN

  Week 5: Monday Afternoon

  “So, how was it?”

  I don’t look up from my computer. “I’ve been ignoring Matt. I can ignore you, too.”

  Matt grunts from where he’s been sitting in the chair across from me, tossing and catching a baseball for fifteen minutes.

  Kennedy reaches out, nabs the ball, studies it. “What’s this?”

  “I caught it at the game on Saturday.”

  Kennedy flicks it back at Matt. “Who won?”

  He doesn’t have to ask which game. All three of us are Mets fans, although Matt’s the one who makes the most time to get up to Citi Field for a game. Kennedy’s too busy doing whatever it is he does (visiting museums?), and I’m too busy barhopping.

  Historically speaking.

  “She put out?” Kennedy asks Matt unsubtly out of the corner of his mouth.

  “Hard to say,” Matt says, resuming his ball catch and release. “He’s kinda grumpy, but then he’ll suddenly have a dopey smile on his face. Interesting.”

  “You know what else would be interesting?” I say. “Kicking you two out if you continue to act like high school jackasses.”

  Without a word, Matt turns the direction of his wrist and flicks the ball to Kennedy, who, without flinching or turning his head, catches it easily. Throws it back.

  It goes on like this for a solid three minutes (that feel like three hours) before the constant, rhythmic smack smack smack of the baseball against their palms accomplishes its goal.

  I turn to them. “Okay, what?”

  Matt holds on to the ball and grins in victory. “Tell us.”

  “You already know. She came over. We ordered in.”

  “Tell me more.”

  “This isn’t a Grease song. I didn’t take her bowling.”

  “In the arcade?” Kennedy says, deadpan.

  I let out an incredulous laugh. “I did not see that coming. I thought you only watched shit like Citizen Kane.”

  “Grease is a classic. I like classic things.”

  “You like old things,” Matt says.

  “True. It’s why I’m not too keen on you. Have you had your first shave yet?”

  Matt studies Kennedy. “You know, you would make a pretty good Kenickie.”

  Kennedy smiles. “I know.”

  “And we’ve got Danny Zuko here, who won’t tell us if Sandy put out under the dock.”

  “Made out under the dock,” I correct, before I can think better of it. “The line is made out under the dock.”

  “Ooh! Did you stay out till ten o’clock?” Kate asks, entering the office and shutting the door behind her.

  At my look, she waves her hand. “Never mind. I’ll ask Sandy. I mean Lara. Can I be Rizzo? She’s my favorite.”

  “No,” Kennedy says.

  She glares at him. “Why not?”

  “Because I’m Kenickie.”

  She snorts. “Yeah. Okay.”

  Kennedy’s glower grows darker. “Who do you think I’d be?”

  She snaps her fingers and pretends to think. “What’s the principal’s name?”

  “You’re thinking of the gym teacher,” Matt says. “The principal’s a woman.”

  “No, no, I know,” Kate says with a sweet smile. “I was definitely thinking of Kennedy as the principal. Uptight, a little prudish . . .”

  Matt hides his mouth with his hand, and I roll my eyes to the ceiling to keep from laughing and, thus, earning Kennedy’s full-on wrath.

  “Annnnyway,” Kate continues, shifting her attention back to me to dodge Kennedy’s scowl. “You’ve got to give us something, Ian. You saw her on Friday, and then none of us heard from you. Not even Sabrina.”

  “I was busy.”

  “Did she—”

  “No more Grease lyrics,” I say, pointing a finger at Matt.

  He resumes his baseball toss as punishment.

  “Was it a date? Are you dating now?” Kennedy asks.

  “It’s a very crucial distinction,” Kate says in agreement, coming and sitting on the arm of Matt’s chair.

  “Hell if I know,” I mutter.

  Lara left my place late last night, much to my displeasure, and I haven’t heard from her all damn day. For the first time ever, I’m on the other side of the equation—the one waiting by the phone, rather than the one avoiding it.

  I don’t like it.

  “Oh. My. Goodness,” Kate says. She covers her mouth in a pathetic attempt to stifle her amusement on my behalf. “Are you guys seeing his face?”

  “Whipped,” Matt says in concurrence.

  “Smitten,” Kennedy agrees.

  Kate points at him. “See? Smitten. He is like the principal in Grease. Old-fashioned and—”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, just because I’m not a childish—” He breaks off.

  Kate crosses her arms and lifts her eyebrows. “Yes? By all means, Kennedy, please finish that sentence.”

  I scrub my hands over my face. “I need coffee.”

  “I already brought you a quad shot this morning,” Kate points out.

  “Okay fine, I need . . .”

 
My three friends await my answer, their expressions a combination of amusement and dismay. Because we all know what I need. Or at least what I want.

  Lara.

  I want to know where things stand with us, but how can I expect her to provide clarity when I’m not even sure what I’m looking for?

  I don’t do this. I don’t even know that I want to do this. I know how people see me. I know because I’ve deliberately cultivated the image.

  The consummate playboy. The overgrown frat boy. The order the most expensive champagne just because I can guy. The one who never calls the next day.

  That’s who I am. And it’s by no means the kind of guy Lara McKenzie wants or needs. At least not for the long haul.

  “You guys want to go out tonight?” I ask Matt and Kennedy. The invitation sounds hollow and forced even to my ears.

  “Ian,” Kate says in a disappointed tone.

  Kennedy shakes his head, and Matt just looks at me.

  “All right, you win,” I say, throwing up my hands. “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. You guys happy now?”

  “Do you like her?” Kate asks.

  “Obviously,” Kennedy snipes.

  “Ian knows what I mean,” Kate says, not looking away from me.

  I nod. “Yes. But I don’t know how to tell her that I want to try for real. I don’t even know how.”

  “Harry Winston,” Kennedy suggests.

  “Nah,” Matt says. “Jewelry’s too intense. Go with bags. Women like a good handbag. Louis Vuitton.”

  “Oh my gawd,” Kate says in exasperation. “No wonder the lot of you are single. Hold on.” She leaves my office, comes back a minute later, and slaps a business card in front of me. “Call this number. And no, I won’t call it for you. There are some things a man ought to do for himself.”

  I pick up the card. “Flowers?”

  She nods. “They’re nice. Women like them. And they’re more first-week-relationship appropriate than a thousand-dollar handbag or diamonds.” Kate lightly slaps both Matt and Kennedy on the back of the head as she says it.

  “Well, it’s technically only been a weekend, but we’ve sort of had something going on longer than that,” I say, tapping the card against my palm.

  “So make it a really big bouquet.” Kate glances at her watch. “It’s nearly one. Kennedy, Matt, you both have investors coming in. Ian, you’ve got an open hour, but you should call Vanessa Lewis to let her know you won’t be needing her services anymore, and—”

  A knock at the door interrupts her. Kate goes to answer it while Matt and Kennedy stand, attention already on their phones as they mentally prep for their upcoming meetings.

  I’m surprised to see it’s our boss at the door. Along with his bosses, both of the Sams. I don’t recognize the man with them, but he’s the only one of the bunch who seems happy.

  “Ian. You got a minute?” Joe asks quietly.

  Kate shoots me an alarmed look, and Matt and Kennedy are stone-faced as they all file out of my office. None of them likes this any more than I do.

  I stand and button my suit jacket. “Sure. What’s up?”

  The man I don’t recognize walks toward me with a sneer disguised as a smile. “Ian Bradley, I’m Steve Ennis with the SEC. I believe you’ve met my employee Lara McKenzie.”

  I manage a nod, my heart pounding.

  “You’ll be working with me now,” Steve says, holding out an envelope.

  “Working on what?” I glance at my bosses, but their expressions betray nothing. I glance down at the envelope and pull out the paper.

  I’ve read only the first sentence when the SEC dick breaks it down for me.

  “Ian Bradley, you’re suspected of receiving an inside tip regarding the dissolution of J-Conn. This is a subpoena notifying you of a formal investigation for insider trading.”

  My head snaps up. “What? This is bullshit. Lara found—”

  “Lara?” His eyebrows go up. “Yes, well, Ms. McKenzie is no longer working this case.”

  I take a step forward, caveman tendencies I didn’t even know I had roaring to life. “I swear to God, if you fired her . . .”

  Steve gives an incredulous laugh. “Fire her. Why would I do that? She’s one of my best.” He gives me a sly wink and lowers his voice. “Rumor has it, she’s on a fast track to the FBI.”

  It’s not until they all file out of my office moments later with a firm warning not to leave town that I realize what Steve Ennis just implied.

  Lara sold me out to get her dream job.

  30

  LARA

  Week 5: Monday Afternoon

  Unemployment sucks.

  But not being able to get ahold of Ian sucks more.

  He’s not answering his calls. Or his text messages. I briefly got ahold of Kate, but she was on the other line and said she’d have to call me back.

  She didn’t.

  I even tried to get ahold of Sabrina, but the woman’s a ghost. I couldn’t find her contact information anywhere.

  I’d finally gone over to Wolfe Investments myself, but the place is like Fort Knox, and without my contractor badge, there was no getting past the security guard. I’d had them call Ian, Kate, Matt, and Kennedy, hoping one of them would let me up to explain.

  I struck out all around. So, desperate times, desperate measures, and all that.

  The doorman at Ian’s apartment building still had my name on the “okay” list from Friday night, so he let me up after I’d smiled prettily and told him I was here to surprise Ian.

  He’ll be surprised all right. It just might not be one he wants.

  I’ve been here twenty minutes, sitting with my back propped against his door. I’ll wait as long as it takes, even if he decides to go clubbing, comes home with some other woman—

  My gut wrenches. I can’t think about that.

  And yet, maybe I should. Maybe I should prepare for the fact that I’m falling hard for a guy who’s known as the city’s most prolific playboy and has yet to indicate he wants a relationship.

  Yes, we ate pizza together, had epic sex, sipped mimosas over brunch, and I did my laundry at his place (because he has a washer and dryer in his unit and I don’t), but none of those things is a proposal.

  Not that I want a proposal, but . . .

  I groan and drop my forehead to my knees, wrapping my arms around my shins. I’m a wreck.

  All this time, I’ve done such a good job of following the rules, doing what I was supposed to be doing, putting one foot in front of the other to get to my goal: the FBI.

  Which is now more out of reach than ever.

  And for what? A guy I’m not sure even wants me past tomorrow?

  I texted Gabby but haven’t heard anything back yet.

  It hits me that I have no one else to call. I’ve been so focused on my job I’ve neglected my life, and now I’m . . .

  Alone. Utterly, heartbreakingly alone.

  “Lara?”

  My head snaps up. Ian’s just stepped off the elevator, though his footsteps slow as he nears me.

  At first glance, he looks the same as always—briefcase in hand, clean-shaven, suit and tie perfectly in place. But then I notice his expression’s one I haven’t seen before—somber, worried, and . . . hurt.

  Oh God, what did Steve tell him?

  “What are you doing here, other than flashing my neighbors?”

  I glance down. My position on the floor has my skirt riding up a bit, but nothing scandalous.

  “I’ve been waiting to talk to you,” I say, starting to push to my feet. “I haven’t been able to reach you all day.”

  He extends a hand to help me up. Just twenty-four hours ago, he’d have pulled me in for a kiss, too, or at least delivered some inappropriate quip. This time, he releases me the second I’m steady on my feet.

  “Ian—” I touch his arm, but he shrugs me off.

  My suspicions are confirmed. He’s been served his subpoena, and he thinks I either knew or had something
to do with it.

  “Let’s go inside,” he mutters, digging his key out of his pocket and opening the door. He gestures for me to precede him, but the motion is slightly mocking.

  I set my purse on the side table and turn toward him, hands clasped. “You’ve had a crap day. Can I make you a drink? Pour wine? Order foo—”

  Ian lets out an incredulous laugh as he tosses his keys beside my purse, setting his briefcase on the ground. “Yeah, a drink will make it all okay.”

  “It may make it a little better,” I mutter.

  He shoots me a dark look over his shoulder. He totally reminds me of Kennedy right now, but this probably isn’t the time to mention it.

  He goes to the window, shoving his hands in his pockets as he stares at the skyline. He looks miserable, and though I want nothing more than to wrap my arms around him, I know he’ll only shake me off.

  So instead, I let him have his silence and quietly gather the supplies necessary for a Negroni. I wasn’t joking when I’d told him my grandma used to drink them. I even made a couple for her back in the day.

  I do a quick Google search on my phone to see if my memory of the recipe’s close. It’s not. So I follow the instructions, measuring equal parts of Campari, gin, and the sweet vermouth I find in the fridge.

  The recipe says it can be served on the rocks or in a cocktail glass. I’ve seen Ian drink it both ways, so I opt for pouring it over ice. Easier.

  The orange twist, however, isn’t easy. I end up with a mangled, pube-looking thing, but it’s the thought that counts, right?

  I take a sip. Not bad. Bitter, and an acquired taste, but I can see how it grows on people.

  Despite all the noise I’m making in the kitchen, Ian doesn’t turn around. When I walk to him and hold the drink in front of his face, he blinks in surprise, and I realize he didn’t even know I was still here, much less register that I was making him a cocktail.

  “Thanks,” he murmurs.

  Our fingers brush when he takes the glass, and our eyes lock for a moment. I hold my breath, but then the connection is broken and he looks away.

  I stifle my sigh. Pouring myself a glass of wine, I go to sit on the couch and wait.

  It doesn’t take him long. His expression is blank when he turns around. “You wanted the FBI that badly?”

  I’m braced for the accusation, figured Steve would go there simply to be petty, but it still stings. A lot.