by Brynne Asher
For now, anyway.
Until she sees me.
If she outs me—and why the hell wouldn’t she—it’s grounds for disciplinary action. Because, unlike me, the FBI doesn’t see gray. I’ll have some talking to do.
“I’m not bored.” I shrug and put them off. “Just wondering what we’ll get on her today. She doesn’t come across stupid or careless. Hard to believe she’d keep anything incriminating here.”
They don’t have a chance to answer because the door to the conference room off the lobby where we were told to wait opens.
A man, probably in his fifties wearing an expensive suit, enters first. Then, she appears.
She looks different.
Closing the door behind herself, she stands at about five-ten in her sexy-as-fuck spiked heels. Every curve on her body is on display, teasing me with what I already know firsthand to be perfection. Her skirt hits her at the knee and stretches over her thighs and hips, leaving nothing to the imagination.
I have to force myself to bite back a frown because, for some reason, that pisses me off.
Her sweater hugs her tits and, even though they’re not huge, they’re big enough, I remember feeling them against my chest. Her hair is smoothed into perfect waves today—a complete contradiction to when I had it wrapped in my fist. To top it all off, a slim choker fits snug on her neck, the memory of her scent nags at me from when I was close enough to that spot to breathe her in.
As soon as she turns, our eyes clash. She recognizes me instantly. Her face falling and those lips that had been so close to mine part on a breath. It takes a second but she frowns, confused, until her gaze drops to my jacket.
My gut tightens as I see it wash over her, reading my employment status in the three little letters that, when put together, mean a fucking lot. I’m not sure what wins out, hurt or shock, but when her eyes jump to mine, she steels her expression.
“Patrick Moss. I’m lead counsel for Montgomery Industries. How can we help you today?” The man in the suit frowns as he stands sentry in front of the door and I’m not surprised. We’re federal investigators—not popular pop-in visitors. I watch Jen as she claims her place next to the attorney.
It’s Bree’s case, so she takes the lead. “I’m Special Agent Bree Newman and these are my partners, Agents McGinnis and Pettit. We have a warrant to search the files—both paper and electronic—of Ms. Jensen Montgomery.”
Jen’s eyes, aimed right at Bree, turn to granite. “Excuse me?”
“I’d like to see that warrant.” The attorney steps forward and grabs the large envelope out of Bree’s hands, yanking out the stack of papers.
“Seriously?” Jen spits as she shoots daggers at me. I’m not sure if she’s talking about the warrant or me, but so far, she hasn’t let on that we’ve met. Though, met is a relative word. She looks over her attorney’s shoulder and asks, “What does it say?”
Patrick slides on a pair of reading glasses, skimming the first page before studying the second carefully. He tips his head and hands the papers to Jen and glares at us. “You only have the authority to search Ms. Montgomery’s office, her computers, cell phone, and that of her assistant. I’ll arrange for security to escort you to her office. They will accompany you while you’re in the building since your warrant is for her office alone.” He turns to Jen. “Follow me.”
Jen’s confused, brown eyes, those that match the chestnut of her hair, move over my co-workers before landing on me. My expression remains bland as I wonder what she’ll say or do. What she does is stand up straighter as her eyes harden. She’s not surprised any longer. For not knowing the woman outside of a quick exchange and our time on the dance floor, I’ve already experienced her smiling, chatty, turned-on, surprised, and hurt. But right now, standing in the lobby conference room of her family’s business, Jensen Montgomery is nothing but downright pissed.
*****
Jen
Patrick is on the phone and, even though I have no fucking idea who he’s talking to, he’s doing his job—kicking ass and taking names. I’m pretty sure he’s rounding up an army of lawyers because he’s spouting orders as fast as he can.
“They’re taking everything, which means they’re taking the fucking lot. Get our IT guys on it. Her computers should be backed up on the servers. I want a copy of everything they’ll have so I can prepare.” He slams his office phone down and picks it back up again demanding his assistant to get Lehmans—the law firm we keep on retainer who specializes in criminal defense. A law firm we haven’t used once since I started working here when I was in high school.
I read the warrant with my name at the top—big, bright, and lonely.
…the office space of Jensen Omera Montgomery, CFO of Montgomery Industries, and that of any assistant who may have day-to-day dealings with the person of interest…
“I don’t care who you have to call. You find out what they’re looking for and why Jen’s the target. They’re digging through her shit right now and taking all her electronics down to her phone—it’s all in the warrant.”
…any and all electronics assigned to or personally owned by the person of interest, including cellular phones, tablets, laptops, desktops…
“I’ve got to call Kipp. I think he’s in Nebraska.” Patrick pauses and looks up at me. “Your parents are still at Cam’s, right?”
Feeling numb, I look up from the warrant. “Yeah. They’re coming back tomorrow.”
Not only did my brother knock up his girlfriend, but he also proposed. I love Cam but everything he does is golden, so my parents are over the moon about it. Really, they just adore Paige, his future wife, and are happy Cam finally got his head out of his ass and is marrying her. I love her, too. I just don’t have the time to fawn all over them. My mom, on the other hand, is in full-blown wedding madness since they’re getting married at the ranch in less than two weeks. I tried to do my part to help in the beginning but the last few weeks I’ve been way too busy with work.
“We’re paying you to figure that shit out.” He leans back in his chair and squeezes his eyes shut while kneading his temple, no doubt easing the headache I’m feeling as well. “I don’t care if you have to raise J. Edgar-fucking-Hoover from the dead. Find out why the damn FBI is rummaging through my CFO’s fucking office!”
Patrick slams his phone down. He’s been our in-house counsel for as long as I can remember and I’ve known him most of my life. He’s lead for a reason—tough, intimidating, and knows his stuff. If I hadn’t grown up with him, he’d intimidate me, too. I played sports with his daughter. He might be shrewd and tough as nails at work, but he’s always supported me here at MI, which isn’t the case with everyone since I sped up the ranks because of my last name. But Patrick gets like this when he’s frustrated and not in control of a situation. The only difference is it’s never been because of me.
I toss the warrant on his desk as he looks at me. When he says nothing, I finally break the silence. “I don’t know why they’re here, Patrick. No idea whatsoever.”
He shakes his head while taking a big breath I hope will calm him. When he finally sighs, he sounds resigned. “Well, it could be worse, right? It could be the IRS. We’ll figure out what’s happening and deal with it.”
I tip my head. “I’m going to go see if they’re done and when I’ll get my things back. I’ll need a new computer. I can work from my files on the network.”
“Don’t say a word to them.” He stands and picks up his jacket, shrugging it up his shoulders. “I’ll come with you.”
When we turn the corner, our security is standing guard and Callie is off to the side with a horrified expression as she watches a man bulldoze through her desk. He takes a stack of papers and her laptop and piles them into a box that’s already full of who knows what.
When she sees me, her eyes get big, silently communicating her freak out. It doesn’t take much to push Callie over the edge, so I can’t imagine how she’s feeling right now. “Don’t worry. It’s all s
tuff—nothing we can’t replicate. Patrick will get this all straightened out.”
She nods as she hugs her middle. When I walk into my office, there he is.
He’s sitting behind my desk digging through my drawers. As upsetting as it is having a warrant issued with my name on it, when I saw the man whom I only know as Eli—the man I danced with, the first man I’ve let touch me in well over a year since I’m too busy to socialize, and the man who did nothing but toy with my emotions during four long, sexy minutes—I swear my stomach dropped. Did he know who I was the other night?
And the last thing I want to do is explain my time with Eli to Patrick. If his name is even Eli.
Eli slams one of my drawers shut at the same time he looks up. There’s a trace of something in his expression right before he squares his shoulders and stands. If I’m not mistaken—and I rarely am—I thought I saw a hint of regret in his mysterious, dark features.
But just like the other night before we hit the dance floor, he turns into an emotionless wax figure, just a shell of a hot guy, who today is donning fashion wear by none other than the damn FBI.
Not exactly couture. Here in my office, with perfect lighting and floor-to-ceiling windows, his facial features are on full display. He’s no less beautiful than he was in the shadowed lights of the club.
“I think we have everything.” My head jerks and I look to the female agent who introduced herself in the lobby conference room. “We’ll return whatever doesn’t become evidence.”
My stomach turns at the word evidence, but I don’t have a chance to say anything, not that I’d dare, because Patrick takes over. “Here is my card. If you’d like to speak with anyone connected with Montgomery Industries, you’ll do it through me. I look forward to learning what this is about.”
The female takes his card and the remaining army of agents load up a shit-ton of boxes I can only assume are filled with my files. My desk is bare, power cords lying everywhere, my laptop and iMac are gone. They took my iPad and my cell is nowhere to be seen.
Dammit, they might as well have cut off my right hand. I cannot function without my phone.
As they file out of my office, leaving a smug aura in their wake, Eli brings up the end of the line. The thought of looking at him hurts, but as he nears, like a shot to my own gut, I can’t help myself.
Catching his dark eyes, they lock with mine and hold tight. Not uttering a word, it’s like his gaze is trying to communicate with me. If I only spoke dark, sexy eye-language.
Damn the erotic, misleading FBI agent.
He skirts me, juggling two large boxes, but I get nothing but a small lift of his strong, stubbled jaw before he disappears from my office. Patrick moves behind him and slams my door, shutting us in the semi-ransacked space.
I move straight to my desk and sit, opening drawers to see what was taken, way more anxious about what they could be looking for.
“Let’s start with the last few weeks,” Patrick says. “I want to know everything. Every detail, every step, every person you’ve come into contact with.”
I nod, slamming my empty file drawer. “It would help if I had my schedule to look back on.”
Patrick picks up my office phone. “Callie, I need Jen’s schedule on something. Laptop, tablet, a fucking scroll. I don’t give a shit.” He pauses and rolls his eyes. “Then call IT and get it off the servers. I need it now.”
Feeling my adrenaline crash for the second time in the matter of forty-eight hours, I mutter, “Don’t cuss at Callie. It stresses her out.”
As I listen to Patrick bark orders at my assistant, knowing I won’t be able to stop him, I pull out the center pencil drawer. What I see makes my breath catch.
Next to my Mont Blanc mechanical pencil sits a lonesome business card. One that wasn’t there before, embossed with a gold emblem with a name scribed next to it.
Elijah Pettit, Special Agent, New York City Field Division.
In slow motion, I move my hand to touch it. Running my fingers over the gold, I wonder what his game is, what he’s trying to do. First his play at me Saturday night—and now this? I want to believe our time at the bar was a freak coincidental meeting but, by the way he acted before I drove off, I have my doubts. I think he knew exactly who I was. Maybe he even knew he’d be blazing into my life this morning.
Maybe that’s why he did what he did. The thought of that hurts and I’d love to shove it into the drawer with his damn business card.
Listening to Patrick ramble on, I pick up the card and flip it over so Patrick can’t see.
I freeze.
A phone number is scribbled in pencil—no doubt written with my favorite Mont Blanc.
“Jen. Are you listening to me?”
I look up at my angry lead counsel who normally specializes in acquisitions and mergers, and who, to my knowledge, has never dealt with the FBI. I push the business card farther into my drawer and slam it. “Sorry, yes. Let’s get started. I need to know what the hell’s going on.”
Chapter 3
Naked on a Street Corner
Jen
“You want my daughter to willingly march her ass into a meeting with the FBI to answer questions about a case they’re trying to make on her? You’re two bricks shy of a full load.”
After I called to inform my dad about the warrant, my parents hopped on the company jet and returned home faster than I could blink. Cam’s shot off more texts to me than I’ve ever received from him, wondering what the fuck is going on. I’m sure he’s reached his word usage for the month. He wouldn’t stop until I finally responded, telling him I’d let him know when I found out, because I’m fucking clueless.
There’s nothing like being clueless to bring out your vulnerability. I might as well be standing naked on a street corner for the world to see.
“Calm down, Kipp.” Patrick tries to appease my father who’s sitting across the room. “We want them on our turf—home court advantage. We’ve got the best criminal defense attorneys in north Texas on our side. They’ve advised Jen to answer their questions with us present. We won’t let her incriminate herself and, if she’s telling the truth—”
“Excuse me,” I interrupt. “I’ve done nothing wrong. Not. One. Thing.”
Patrick looks at me and sighs. “Sorry. All I’m saying is, if you cooperate and answer their questions, it will only help your cause. You said you’ve done nothing wrong. Let’s prove it. I don’t know what they think they have on you. We might not know unless formal charges are filed and we get the discovery. The only thing our attorneys have heard are whispers of wire fraud.”
“Wire fraud?” my father belts. Kipp Montgomery is an imposing figure any day but, right now, he’s on fire. His deep voice rumbles through my downtown Dallas condo, enough to make me wince if I wasn’t just as shocked by Patrick’s news.
“Wire fraud?” I mimic my dad but in a higher voice. “The only person I ever wire money to is my broker. That makes no sense.”
“The lead counsel from Lehmans just called as I was on my way over here and that’s all they can get out of the FBI. We’ve made the appointment for first thing in the morning. I will be there along with the team from Lehmans. You don’t answer a question unless we give you the nod, but it’s important you come across as helpful and willing to get this rectified.” Patrick stands and collects his things. It’s late—almost midnight. Just when I thought I was done for the day, my dad wanted a briefing and Patrick came over to rehash it all over again. “Get some rest. There’s nothing to prepare for. Lehmans is digging through your bank records as we speak and I’ve ordered an internal audit, as well.”
“What time is the interview?” my dad demands.
Patrick makes his way to my door before turning back one last time. “Nine o’clock. But it doesn’t matter that you’re her superior or her father. You can’t be there. Now, leave her alone so she can get some rest. We’ll get her through this. Don’t worry.”
“Thanks, Patrick.” I walk to the do
or and lock it.
My dad sighs and leans back into his chair. Right now, I want nothing more than to be by myself and for this entire day—no, this entire fucked-up situation—to be over. I walk to my kitchen and open the fridge, grabbing a container of hummus I pray is still good. After giving it a smell, I head to the pantry for crackers. It’ll have to do. I need my bed even though I doubt I’ll be able to sleep.
“Jenny.”
I look out from my kitchen and through the open space where my dad looks uncomfortable, sitting in a chair that’s cool as shit but not made for relaxing. The black iron industrial frame and white cushions are a stark contrast to the plush leathers he’s used to at the ranch.
“Sweetheart, I don’t know what this is about, but Patrick will get it worked out. I trust him and Lehmans is the best.”
All I can do is nod as I chew on a semi-stale cracker lumped with hummus and hope he’s right.
He goes on to tell the truth that I worry about every day. “This is a bunch of cockshit. Everyone knows you’re in the position you’re in because you’re my daughter, but you’ve proven yourself. I know you worry about that—hell, it’s written all over you.”
I swallow and go for another cracker that really just tastes like sawdust. “I don’t know, Dad. The FBI served a warrant today and I was the subject. The last thing I’m worried about right now is proving myself capable of doing the job my Daddy gave me.”
He gets up and ambles over to me. “Quit with the sass.”
At fifty-nine, my dad is still in shape since his hobby is working on his ranch. It’s where he is every evening and weekend, laboring side-by-side with his ranch hands. Whereas Cam and Ellie got my mother’s blue eyes and lighter hair, I’m all Kipp Montgomery. He might be more salt than pepper now, but his once dark hair—the same as mine—is still thick and wavy. When he gets close and his eyes, the color of fresh tilled earth, land on me, it’s all I can do to hold it together. Pulling me into his arms, I suddenly don’t feel like a CFO—like someone who carries the weight of a corporation around on my shoulders. I always have to prove I can do the job I was handed instead of being handed the job because I proved I could do it. No, I’m exhausted and feel too old to only be thirty.
