Hard Sell (21 Wall Street)

by Lauren Layne

  “Wait, what? What do you mean?”

  Sam stands and moves so he’s beside his wife with a grin. “She means that nothing cleans up a man’s reputation like the right woman by his side.”

  “But—”

  Samantha pins me with a look. “I’ll spell it out for you, Matt. Get a girlfriend.”

  “Or?” I ask, sensing an ultimatum at play.

  She gives a thin smile. “Or get a new job.”

  2

  SABRINA

  Monday Morning, September 18

  Weather-wise, it’s the perfect morning.

  Just warm enough to enjoy a cappuccino on my favorite restaurant’s patio, just crisp enough to warrant the new cashmere sweater I bought to usher in the fall weather.

  A little less perfect? The expression on Lorna Midler’s face right now as she flips through a dozen photos of her in twelve different sexual positions with her personal trainer.

  She looks devastated, and even though I’ve been at this career for years and am a die-hard cynic, it’s difficult not to feel somewhat sorry for her.

  To give her a bit of privacy, I lift my mug and study the little heart the barista made in the foam, smiling because the gesture, while sweet, proves he or she doesn’t know me at all.

  True love? Not really my thing.

  See? Cynic.

  Lorna pushes her Chanel glasses atop her head to stare at me, aghast. “You can’t be serious, Sabrina. How did you get these?”

  Her voice is sharp and aggressive. She’s moved from devastated to defensive, fast.

  I keep my own voice soothing to counter her anger. “I didn’t climb a tree outside your Park Avenue brownstone, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “But you hired someone else to? What, you paid some sleazy PI so you could ruin my marriage?”

  I take a sip of the cappuccino, the foam heart dissolving into a blur as I resist the urge to point out that she ruined her marriage.

  “I understand this is frustrating,” I say, keeping my voice calm.

  Lorna snorts. “How can you possibly understand? Have you ever been married?”

  It’s my turn to snort, though I do so in my head, not out loud. Marriage has never been part of my life’s plan, and relationships like Lorna’s are part of the reason why.

  “I can sue you,” Lorna hisses at me when I don’t reply.

  I don’t even flinch. It’s a common threat, and one that holds no weight. “For your sake, I wouldn’t recommend it. We signed a contract that clearly states—”

  “That you work for me!”

  I continue over her outburst. “That in order to retain my services, you must be completely forthcoming.” I pull a copy of said contract out of my bag, sliding it in front of her. “If you flip to page two, you’ll note section 3A and your initials, where you agreed to answer my questions honestly. Section 3B, also initialed, is where you agreed to forfeit your deposit if at any time you lie to me during the course of our business.”

  “I never—”

  I hold up one hand to stop her, then pull out a small recorder from my bag and set it on the table. “This is our session from Bemelmans. The one where you told me point-blank that you’d been faithful to your husband.”

  She glares, but I refuse to back down.

  “Lorna, I didn’t take the photos. You hired me to investigate your husband, and that’s precisely what I set out to do. But your husband either knew about or anticipated your plan, because the second I entered his office, he handed me the envelope with those very photos. Taken two days before you lied to me about your fidelity.”

  She fiddles with her necklace. “You spoke with him?”

  “I did. I prefer to deal with people directly. To look them in the eye, gauge their physical response to my questions. In this case, he was one step ahead of me. He not only knew that you had an affair, he had proof.”

  She swallows nervously. “So what happens now?”

  “I strongly suggest you and your husband sit down and have a conversation. If not with each other, at least with your respective attorneys. This is beyond me now.”

  “But I hired you to ensure I didn’t lose everything in the divorce!”

  “No, you hired me to determine the nature of your husband’s philandering. You neglected to mention your own, which is a breach of our contract.”

  “Fine,” she snaps, folding the contract back up and tossing it across the table at me in disgust. She reaches behind to pull her Gucci purse off the back of her chair and sets it in her lap. “I wish I could say good riddance, but I’ll likely see you again, won’t I?”

  I reach out and pick up the recorder, putting it back in my bag. “I do tend to run into my past clients socially, yes.”

  She laughs. “You know, I’ve never really thought about it until now, but you must be the most powerful woman in Manhattan. Just how many New York secrets do you have access to?”

  I shrug and give her an honest response. “Plenty.”

  Her answering smile is tight and unfriendly. “Yes. Well. Just as long as they stay secrets.”

  I pat the papers still on the table. “I signed the contract, too. And I always uphold my end.”

  She stands and gathers up the stack of photos. “I’ll be keeping these.”

  I wave a hand. By all means. She and I both know there are duplicates. Multiple sets, hard copies, and digital files.

  Lorna walks away without a word, all skinny shoulders and hip wiggles as she saunters down Spring Street. She’s left me with the bill, but with what I charge, I can surely pay for her mimosa.

  I know. You’re thinking I’m someone who thrives on other people’s problems.

  Sort of.

  But I offer them solutions. For a price, yes, but I don’t deal in extortion. I’m upfront with how I work and what they can expect from me from the very beginning.

  There are no “gotchas,” at least from me.

  See, I’m a fixer. Which is basically a fancy way of saying I handle the messy shit that people get themselves into. Your worst dirty laundry? I can manage it. Your darkest secrets? I can work with those. But only if you tell me . . . up front.

  I don’t give a crap that Lorna Midler was banging her beefcake trainer. Goodness knows her husband was no saint.

  But I care that she kept it from me.

  I’ve dealt with all sorts of morally bankrupt people in my line of work. Cheaters. Adulterers. Even people who’ve got a toe on the other side of the law. It’s all part of the job, and it’s a job I like.

  But I refuse to work with liars.

  I mentally add Lorna to my blacklist—not that I’ll snub her when we inevitably run into each other socially. But we won’t be working together in the future.

  “Ms. Cross, another cappuccino?” I glance up and smile at Javier, one of the regular servers.

  “I’m at my caffeine quota for the day. How about one of your herbal teas? Surprise me on the flavor. Oh, and the paper, please.”

  He nods, and I sit back in my chair, inhaling the fresh air with its hint of autumn as I take in the quiet SoHo foot traffic. The neighborhood boasts some of the city’s best shopping, but it’s too early in the day for the shops to be open, so the streets are quiet, the peacefulness interrupted only by New York’s ever-present taxi horns.

  “Here we are, Ms. Cross,” Javier says, approaching with a pot of hot water and a floral china teacup. “No cream or sugar, correct?”

  “Good memory,” I say as he pours steaming water into the cup.

  He sets the pot on the table, as well as my newspaper and a croissant, which he delivers with a wink. “On the house.”

  I don’t bother to tell him that on the house doesn’t mean the calories in the buttery confection won’t end up on my hips and that free food doesn’t often translate to fat-free.

  Still, I nibble the corner of the pastry after he walks away, because it beats the hell out of the nonfat Greek yogurt I had earlier. I’ve been determined to te
ach myself to like the stuff, but so far, no luck. It may be healthy, but it’s also sour and doesn’t come close to beating a flaky croissant.

  I wipe my buttery fingers on my napkin and pick up the Wall Street Journal. I get the WSJ and a half dozen other newspapers delivered to my apartment every morning, and I read them cover to cover. Staying informed is paramount to doing my job well. But my meeting with Lorna was early, and I didn’t have time to finish my usual reading.

  I sip my tea as I scan the front page. A moderate earthquake in the Bay Area, no reported injuries, thank goodness. Politicians at an international peace summit. A tech giant with another record-breaking quarter . . .

  I turn the page.

  And nearly drop my teacup.

  “Oh my God.” I lean closer to the paper, making sure it’s really him, but . . . of course it is.

  Even without his name in the description, who else would be in the Wall Street Journal, straddled by a half-naked woman with her back to the camera?

  Who else would have his hand on her waist, his grin as cocky as ever?

  Who else, besides Matt Cannon, would ruin my appetite for a perfectly good croissant?

  Because that’s what Matt Cannon does. He turns my otherwise in-control life upside down, every damn chance he gets.

  3

  MATT

  Tuesday Morning, September 19

  “So, what are you going to do?” Kennedy asks, his eyes watching the bar I’m benching as he spots me.

  “Hell if I know,” I manage with gritted teeth as I push through the rep. “Know any rent-a-girlfriend services?”

  “None that aren’t glorified escort services and won’t get you into more trouble.”

  “I don’t think that’s even possible,” I say, finishing the last rep in my set and letting Kennedy guide the weight back to its resting place.

  I sit up, and my other best friend, Ian, tosses me a towel, which I catch with one hand.

  Ian sits on the bench opposite mine, hands clasped loosely between his knees. “I sent you a fucking million texts yesterday. You didn’t reply.”

  I wipe my face with the towel. “Sorry. The Sams figured everyone would be buzzing, and that I’d be better working from home.”

  “Everyone was buzzing,” Kennedy says. “Still doesn’t explain why you ignored us.”

  “Not intentional,” I grumble. “I was on the phone all day doing damage control with clients, and then I turned off my phone last night to . . . I dunno. Think.”

  What I don’t tell them is that those conversations were a hell of a lot rougher than I’d anticipated. My bosses weren’t exaggerating. This is bad. Really bad.

  The guys nod without bugging me further, and I’m grateful for the understanding. Or at least the temporary free pass on not talking about it.

  We all belong to the same gym, but it’s rare for us to be here at the same time. The guys did a decent job of playing innocent, but I sense they showed up at the same time because of me—for me.

  The three of us started at Wolfe Investments at the same time, six years ago. Me as a twenty-two-year-old cocky brat with a brain for numbers, them a couple of years older, a little less whiz kid but no less cocky.

  With as cutthroat as Wall Street is, it’s a wonder the three of us didn’t end up killing each other on our way to the top. Instead, we rose to the top together, competing, sure, but in a way that pushed each other to be better. No, the best. Because damn it, we are the best.

  Guess the cockiness didn’t fade with age.

  Kennedy leans on the bar, a water bottle dangling from his hands, looking unflappable as he always does. He’s the serious, old-fashioned one of our group, the type of guy who you should never challenge to a game of Scrabble or chess, and whose first word was probably mahogany, or some shit.

  Ian’s charming, confident, and the most determined, stubborn son-of-a-bitch I know. He had a shitty time of it growing up, but he took all the crap of his childhood and used it as fuel to put himself through Yale and elbow his way in with the Wall Street hotshots.

  Me? Well, I’ve already mentioned the whole boy-wonder crap. My brain’s sort of a human calculator of sorts, but my parents did a decent job of not letting me nerd out. I was equally good at math and football, and, well, how do I put this . . .

  My life’s always been damn good. Easy.

  Until . . .

  Now, apparently.

  “So it’s that bad?” Ian asks.

  I drag the towel over my damp face once more. “Worse. Since I met with The Sams yesterday morning, a half dozen other clients have called to ‘express their concerns.’” I put air quotes around the last part.

  “Oh, come on. Who hasn’t done something crazy at a bachelor party?” Ian scoffs. Kennedy nods in commiseration.

  I rest my elbows on my knees and let my chin drop toward my chest for a second. Much as I appreciate my friends’ loyalty, at the moment, it does nothing to solve my problem.

  I know that what I do in my free time doesn’t affect my work. I know that I’m one of the best damn brokers at Wolfe. I know that my clients’ money is safe, that I can do my job in my sleep and do it well. But it turns out The Sams were right. Perception is everything, and right now, I’ve got a serious image problem.

  “What about Lara?” Kennedy asks Ian. “She got any friends who want to play the part of Mrs. Cannon?”

  Oh hell no.

  I hold up a hand. “Easy there. The bosses said I need a girlfriend, not a wife.”

  “Yeah, but for this to work, people have to believe there’s a chance this woman could be your wife. It’s about you settling down.”

  “I don’t need to settle down,” I say, agitatedly running my hands through my hair. “I need everyone else to get their heads out of their asses and quit blowing this out of proportion.”

  “Look,” Ian says with a sigh. “If anyone knows what it’s like to have his life turned upside down overnight, it’s me. I understand even more what it’s like to have accusations hurled at you that are unfounded. You want to fight, and I get that. But you’ve also got to ask yourself what you want more: to stand on principle or your job.”

  I look back up. “You’re saying I should give in? Play along?”

  “I’m saying, there are worse things than pretending to have a girlfriend for a few weeks until this blows over. Nobody’s asking you to walk down the aisle or go diamond shopping. Just let people think that you might consider doing it . . . someday.”

  I grunt, not in the mood to get into all the reasons why I have zero intention of walking down the aisle or going diamond shopping—ever.

  “Ian’s right. Things could be worse. Like having the SEC on your ass for insider trading,” Kennedy says with a bland look at Ian.

  Ian glares. “Alleged insider trading. And I was cleared.”

  Kennedy’s hands lift in surrender. “I know. I was just trying to back up your point that Matt’s situation could be worse.”

  They’re right. I feel like an ass complaining about my situation when it’s nothing compared to what Ian went through.

  His worst-case scenario had been prison; mine’s . . . what? Playing house for a few weeks? Pretending to be a doting boyfriend? It’s a small price to pay for keeping the life I’ve worked for—the life I love.

  “Okay, fine,” I say, draping the towel around my neck as I look at Ian. “Kennedy’s right. Lara’s my best bet for finding a woman to play the part.”

  Ian’s blue eyes blink. “How the hell do you figure that?”

  “Because she’s the only nice girl we know.”

  “Kate’s nice,” Ian points out.

  “I don’t think the guy who bones his assistant is what the bosses had in mind when they suggested this plan,” Kennedy points out. “Lara’s social group’s a better bet.”

  “Am I the only one who remembers that my fiancée is FBI?” Ian asks incredulously. “Lying isn’t really their thing.”

  “Sure it is. They do underco
ver work,” I argue.

  “They go undercover to solve crimes and catch bad guys,” Ian says. “Not save party-boy reputations. No offense.”

  “None taken,” I say, knowing he’s right. “What about that Gabby chick, Lara’s best friend?”

  “Moved to Paris with her boyfriend. A long-distance fake girlfriend’s not going to do you any good. What about her friend Megan, the cute redhead from her yoga class? You met her at our dinner party last month.”

  I immediately shake my head. Not that Megan wasn’t cute and fun and all that, but she gave off a distinct vibe that she was looking for more than a fling. The type of girl who wants to find a boyfriend who turns into a husband who turns into a dad. None of that’s for me, which is why I’d politely avoided her all evening.

  “Too risky,” I say.

  Kennedy raises his eyebrows. “Risky? That woman was five two if an inch and as likable as they come.”

  “Exactly,” I say, standing and gripping the towel around my neck with both hands and tugging in aggravation over this whole situation. “That’s exactly my problem. You guys know as well as I do what it’s like to be a single millionaire under thirty . . . five,” I add with a glance at a glowering Kennedy, remembering he’s got a few years on me. “At the risk of sounding like a conceited asshole . . .”

  “You don’t know any women who can pretend to be your girlfriend without actually wanting the part?” Ian asks.

  “Not really, no. And while I can think of a handful who’d be game to play along, I wouldn’t trust any of them to know how to conduct themselves in a business meeting. They’d probably order shots at dinner and end up doing more harm than good.”

  “So no marriage-minded women, but no party girls, either,” Kennedy muses.

  “Right. I need someone who will know the stakes from the very beginning and who won’t misconstrue anything when I act besotted with her in front of clients.”

  “Did you just use the word besotted?” Ian asks.

  I hitch my thumb at Kennedy. “His dopey vocabulary is rubbing off on me. But you guys get what I mean, right?”