Hot Asset_21 Wall Street

by Lauren Layne

  I take a sip of wine. “What happened today?” I ask, ignoring his question.

  “Don’t,” he snaps. “Don’t play dumb. Don’t pretend you don’t know about the subpoena for the formal investigation, that you didn’t sell me out to get your dream job.”

  “Is that seriously what you think of me?”

  He lets out a frustrated growl, running his hands through his hair. “What else am I supposed to think when you didn’t so much as warn me about the shitstorm coming my way?”

  “I would have,” I say softly, “except I was with HR all morning. They don’t allow phones during exit interviews.”

  He frowns. “Exit interviews. What—Hold on. He fired you? He said he didn’t.”

  “Steve didn’t fire me,” I say. “I quit.”

  Ian stares at me, his expression unreadable. Then he reaches for me. “Oh, Lara . . .”

  I didn’t realize I wanted to be held until he wraps his arms around me. I let him absorb all the emotions I haven’t even begun to process yet.

  I quit my job. I’m unemployed.

  It’d be a doozy for anyone. But for the girl who’s literally lived for work for the past six years, it’s shattering.

  I don’t know who I am without my job—without my dream of the FBI.

  Not that the dream’s changed, but it feels a hell of a long way off now.

  Still, I don’t cry. I suspect that will come later.

  “I’d say thank you,” he says against my hair. “But I know you didn’t do it for me.”

  I shake my head. “They’re framing you, Ian. I don’t know why, but I couldn’t sit by and be a complacent part of that happening to anyone.”

  “Did you tell HR?” he asks, pulling back slightly.

  “Of course. They said they’d look into it, but it’s his word against mine, and he’s got twenty years’ experience on me.”

  His hand slides over my hair, the gesture tender and comforting. “I’m sorry. For everything. The way I acted, that I assumed you stabbed me in the back when it was the complete opposite . . .”

  I lift a shoulder, but he shakes his head. “No, don’t act like it’s nothing. You had a shit day, and you came here. It means . . . everything. Okay?”

  I rest my head against his chest and let him hold me, giving in to the realization that I don’t know what comes next—giving in to the fear of it.

  He does for several moments before pulling back slightly. “Why the hell were you flitting around getting me a drink? Sit down. Let me take care of you.”

  I reach out and grab his tie, pulling him back to me, crushing my mouth to his. “Take care of me this way,” I whisper against his mouth. “Please.”

  Distract me.

  He hesitates only a moment before doing as I ask, pulling me close.

  I meet him kiss for kiss, pouring all my frustration into him, letting him pour his into me.

  I tear at his buttons, and by the time he walks me backward, tumbling us both onto the couch, we’re already half-unclothed.

  I go for his belt, and though his breathing is rough with desire, he grabs my hands, pinning them gently above my head. “Easy,” he murmurs. “We have time.”

  No we don’t, I want to scream. I’m afraid if I stop for even one second, my thoughts will catch up and consume me.

  His mouth is gentle on mine, pulling back every time I try to speed up until I have no choice but to succumb to his leisurely pace.

  “I’ve wanted you like this for so long,” he says as his lips trail lazily down my neck. He slowly removes my bra and drops it beside the couch. “I want to unwrap you, unravel you . . .”

  He palms my breast, lifting it to his mouth as his lips wrap around my nipple. He’s sure but unhurried, hungry but savoring. With each flick of his tongue, each nip of his teeth, I spin out of control more, and I realize he’s right.

  There is time for this.

  I lose track of everything except the way he makes me feel. I barely register the rest of my clothes hitting the floor, much less the looming threat of tomorrow.

  Ian drops soft kisses down my rib cage, then back up the other side as his fingers slip beneath my legs.

  I gasp and arch up. More.

  But instead of obeying my silent command, he keeps his touch a whisper-light tease.

  “Please,” I moan when I arch up once again, only to have him deny me.

  He smiles against my throat. “Please what?”

  “Ian.”

  His fingers press just a bit more firmly. “Yes?”

  “Touch me.”

  “Like this?” he asks, circling my clit with his index finger.

  A moan is my only response.

  “Like this?” he asks again, sliding a finger inside me. “Or . . .” He slowly moves down my body, setting one of my feet on the ground beside the couch and lifting the other so my leg’s draped over his back. “Like this?” He holds my gaze as he presses his mouth to me.

  I come a little further apart with each swipe of his tongue, surrendering to every delicious sensation as he pushes my leg higher, spreading me wider until I have no choice but to go crashing over the ledge.

  Ian stays with me till the end, pressing a tender kiss to my inner thigh as I try to catch my breath. “Stay,” he commands, pointing a finger at me and going to the bedroom.

  As if I could move.

  He proves me wrong, though.

  He comes back from the bedroom naked, armed with a condom, and moments later, he’s gently flipped me to my stomach, kneeling behind me on the couch as he pulls my hips back to him.

  I gasp as he thrusts inside me, my hips reflexively moving back against him, my hands finding the arm of the couch for support.

  I’m braced for a fierce, frenzied coupling, but with this, too, he takes his time. He has one hand on my hip, the other almost tenderly resting on my lower back, and his thrusts are slow and controlled, demanding that I respond to him.

  He leans forward slightly, the hand on my back sliding around to my front, setting two fingers against me, circling. I gasp and look over my shoulder. The second our eyes meet, he finally, finally loses control.

  He groans and quickens his pace, his fingers moving faster against me until I cry out with my second orgasm. Ian’s release matches my own, his groan tortured, his hands just a little bit rough as he stiffens behind me, head bowed, his breath staccato as he empties inside me.

  My shaking limbs demand I lower to the couch, and he follows me down, rolling me onto my side so my back is to his chest, his warm arms coming around me.

  Once my heartbeat returns to normal and I remember how to breathe steadily again, I lift his hand and press my lips to his knuckles. “So, what now?”

  Ian kisses the back of my neck. “We figure out what’s next.”

  We.

  The word’s both dangerous and comforting.

  I look back at him. “Can we deal with it a little bit later?”

  Ian smiles in understanding, then, giving a mocking frown, reaches above me and jerks the pillow out from under my head.

  He holds it in front of my face. “You smooshed my manly throw pillow.”

  I push back against him, relieved to have a reason to laugh. “Okay, Mr. Manly. Go get me my wine.”

  He sits up and hands me my glass before going into the bathroom. He comes back, tying the drawstring of sweatpants, and tosses me a T-shirt and pair of clean underwear I’d left at his place over the weekend.

  He picks up his drink and sits beside me on the couch, watching as I pull the shirt over my head. “Have you ever seen Grease?”

  I pause in the process of pulling my hair out from the neck of the shirt. “Like Sandra Dee Grease?”

  “Yeah. So, fair warning . . . the next time we see my friends, there’s a good chance there will be a sing-along. You’re to tell them that I was sweet. Just turned eighteen.”

  “Do I have to? Because that’s super weird,” I say, looking to see if he’s serious.

>   “It’s either that or you tell them you’re hopelessly devoted to me.”

  His voice is teasing, but I press my mouth to his rather than respond because I’m too afraid that I’ll admit the truth . . .

  That hopelessly devoted’s not too far off base from what I’m feeling.

  31

  IAN

  Week 5: Tuesday Morning

  I may not know much about relationships, but I know this woman.

  I know that she’s a lot more devastated by her unemployment than she lets on.

  I also know if I push her on it, she’ll wriggle away.

  I’m trying for patience—I really am—but it’s never been a strong suit of mine. I fight for what I want, remember? And what I want is for Lara to have her job back. Hell, I want for her to have the FBI, but I’d settle for whatever makes the shadows in her eyes go away.

  “Maybe we should bring in your lawyer,” Lara says, picking up her coffee mug. She’s dressed in little shorts and my T-shirt again, and it’s alarming how much I’ve come to enjoy the sight.

  Focus, Ian.

  It’s eight a.m. the morning after she quit her job and I got served my subpoena, and Lara and I are no closer to figuring out why her boss is so determined to take me down.

  Or who his mysterious source is.

  After being up half the night reviewing every single name, note, and connection that could possibly tie me to J-Conn, we agreed to give it fresh eyes in the morning.

  A solid plan.

  With no results.

  “I’m meeting Vanessa at ten,” I say, glancing at the clock on the stove. “I just hoped to have some good news for her. She’s working her side, but we’re both hitting dead ends.”

  Lara takes a deep breath, then pulls her hair into a messy knot with the hairband around her wrist. “Okay, let’s go through this one more time. Maybe we’re approaching it the wrong way.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, we’ve been focusing on a J-Conn connection.”

  “Yeah . . .”

  She chews her lip. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, because it sounds like a B-movie plot, but what if the connection isn’t you and J-Conn but you and Steve?”

  I stand to get us both more coffee. “Explain.”

  “Well, we already know that you didn’t get a tip about J-Conn . . .”

  The casual confidence in how she says this has me closing my eyes with emotion, and I’m relieved my back is turned so she doesn’t see it.

  “And,” she continues, “we already know that there isn’t any circumstantial evidence tying you to J-Conn that could be misconstrued. Because if there were, I’d have found it.”

  This time the confidence in her tone is for herself, and it makes me smile as I top off her mug.

  “So what if J-Conn’s not the key? What if it’s just the most convenient, believable way to set you up?”

  “Makes sense.” I drop back into my chair. “But why? I’m sure I’ve pissed off some people over the years, but I can’t imagine I’ve done anything deserving of fucking jail time. And how the hell is your former boss involved?”

  She shakes her head and fiddles with her earlobe, deep in thought. “I dunno, but my gut tells me he is. I’ve never seen him act like this. It feels . . . personal for him.”

  I give her a gentle smile. “Your gut, huh? You finally admitting intuition is a real thing?”

  Lara blows out a frustrated breath. “Let’s just say I’ve learned that just because I follow the rules, it doesn’t mean everyone else does.”

  “Which would make sense if I knew Steve. But I don’t.”

  Her gaze flicks to me. “Maybe you know someone he knows.”

  “I’m sure I do,” I say, gesturing at the dozens of papers in front of us with hundreds of names. “But the guy’s been with the SEC for decades. It could be anyone, right?”

  She sighs. “I’m going to take a shower. See if inspiration strikes.”

  I reach out and grab her hand, pressing my lips to her inner wrist. “Want company?”

  She smiles and steps toward me, kissing my forehead. “Can I just take a minute? Think on my own?”

  I kiss her wrist again and try to stifle the panic that she might be pulling away before we’ve really started. “Sure.”

  She squeezes my hand and starts to move toward the bathroom.

  But then she pauses. Backs up.

  With one finger, she pulls a sheet of paper out of the stack piled on my kitchen table and studies it. Then she turns it around for me to see.

  It’s one of the profiles I’d printed from my LinkedIn page—people who I don’t consider as friends but who are close enough to my circle to know about the J-Conn coup.

  “Jacob Houghton?” I shrug. “He’s an investment broker. I don’t know him well, but from what I do know, he’s . . . well, he’s kind of a douche. Why?”

  “I know him. And if Steve hasn’t unfriended me on Facebook yet . . .” She sits at the table and opens her laptop, her fingers moving quickly across the keys.

  “Aha!” she says triumphantly, adjusting her glasses and turning the computer around so I can see the screen.

  I bend down to look. She’s pulled up a wedding photo on Facebook.

  My eyes go to the bride first, a middle-aged woman I’ve never seen in my life. I move to the groom next, and him I recognize—it’s Steve Ennis, Lara’s boss.

  “I went to Steve’s wedding. Heck, he even had me sit at the head table with his family, which is how I know . . .” She points at the picture.

  “Jacob Houghton,” I say. “Why’s he at your boss’s wedding?”

  “He’s Steve’s brother-in-law, married to his sister. I wouldn’t have thought anything of it, except I just saw him yesterday. Jacob’s always been friendly, but yesterday he was sort of . . . weird.”

  “He was also at my cocktail party,” I say distractedly, remembering that the dude was a little off when I talked to him. I’d assumed he was just bad at small talk, but . . . “You think that’s our connection?”

  “It’s the only one we have,” she says. “Although I can’t think of how you and Jacob connect. You ever go after the same client?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.” I scroll through the rest of the wedding photos. Then I go totally still.

  “Who’s this?” I point at the woman beside Jacob in what looks to be a family photo.

  “That’s Jacob’s wife, Steve’s sister. I’m blanking on her name . . . Wendy?”

  “How long have they been married?”

  She blows out her breath. “I’m not sure. I didn’t really talk to her much beyond the usual small talk about the centerpieces. But Steve’s wedding was two years ago, so at least that long.”

  My blood feels like it’s running cold. Then hot. Then cold again.

  “Why?” She looks up at me, then touches my arm. “What’s wrong, Ian?”

  “Her name is Whitney. I slept with her,” I say, my voice a little hoarse.

  “When?”

  I can’t bring myself to answer.

  “Ian, how long ago?”

  I have one hand on the back of Lara’s chair, the other on the table beside her. I force myself to look down and meet her eyes. “A few months ago, after a party. I don’t think I ever got her last name.”

  She exhales.

  “I had no idea she was married, Lara. You have to believe me.”

  “I do,” she says, touching a hand lightly to mine. “But Jacob wouldn’t. And if he’s convinced Steve to help take you down . . .”

  “It can’t be that,” I say, straightening and trying to clear my head. “This isn’t a TV procedural with cliché villains.”

  “We’re right,” she whispers, pressing a fist to her stomach. “I feel it here. I know we’re right.”

  I think so, too, and I’ve built my career trusting my gut feelings. It’s what got me into this J-Conn mess in the first place. Maybe it can be what gets me out.

  I reach fo
r my phone. “I’ll call Vanessa.”

  32

  LARA

  Week 5: Thursday, Lunchtime

  “You nervous?” Sabrina asks, watching me in the mirror as she reapplies her lipstick.

  I meet her gaze. “Not even a little bit.”

  She smiles, dropping the tube back into her purse. “I knew you had grit.”

  “Or a simmering vendetta,” I mutter, giving myself one last look in the mirror. The usual Lara stares back. Wide blue eyes. Ponytail that’s neither too high nor too low, just there—practical. Black-rim glasses, minimal makeup . . . and a score to settle.

  “Yes, well, take it from someone who deals with revenge plots on a regular basis—this is a good one,” Sabrina says, stepping toward me and opening a button on my blouse.

  “Hey.” I start to button it again, but she slaps my hand. “Nope. This’ll go better if he’s distracted by a bit of cleavage.”

  “I’m not showing any cleavage.” Am I? I glance down.

  “No, but there’s the prospect of it, and that’s even more enticing,” she says. But then Sabrina frowns and unabashedly puts her hands beneath my boobs, pushing them upward. “Seriously, what bra are you wearing, your grandma’s?”

  This time it’s me who bats her hands aside. “Sorry, I didn’t realize this mission involved a push-up bra.”

  She gives me a knowing look. “Do you even own a push-up bra?”

  “What does it matter? I don’t have those to go with it,” I say, gesturing at her slightly low-cut dress.

  She looks down at her chest. “You mean day cleavage?”

  “What the heck is day cleavage?”

  She holds up her thumb and forefinger to her cleavage as though she’s measuring something. “No more than a half inch or so, see?”

  “What’s night cleavage?”

  She widens the gap between her fingers. “An inch, at least.”

  I shake my head in wonderment. “It’s like you’re from a different planet.”

  “Well, get used to it, because I have every intention of making you a regular lunch date,” Sabrina says with a smile that’s warmer than I’ve ever seen from her.

  “Because I’m helping Ian?”

  “Nah. I mean, sure, that’d get you a thank-you lunch. Maybe a thank-you coffee. But you’re doing this for you. And that’s enough to make you a regular in my life.”