by Brynne Asher
“Since all work topics are off limits, can we talk about you moving here from New York? Is that where you’re from?”
He shakes his head and swallows. “Nope. Chicago.”
Eli keeps eating and after taking another swig of my beer, I offer, “I grew up in a little town.”
His fork stops halfway to his mouth and he looks to me. Those dark eyes narrow slightly when he admits, “I know.”
I figured as much, so I keep going to make my point. “I have an older brother and a younger sister.”
“Know that, too,” he mumbles as he chews.
“I went to SMU.”
“Yep,” he confirms this knowledge.
I narrow my eyes. “I made the Forbes Forty Under Forty list of the most powerful business people last year.”
He has the decency to swallow this time and while reaching for his beer, he smirks. “I enjoyed that article. Congratulations on making the list, by the way. That’s a big deal.”
I lean back into the arm of my sofa where I’m sitting, feet to my ass, facing his side. I’m not sure if it’s recent events—knowing I’m being investigated by the FBI and having been charged with wire fraud and insider trading—but him knowing everything about me is unnerving. My parents raised us to appreciate our privacy—even protect it with everything we can. Not to mention, this is not the way I’d like to get to know a man and especially not the way I want him to get to know me.
“Well, did you know that I was number one in my age group two years running when I was in high school for equestrian jumping in the English category?” I watch him wipe his mouth and toss his fork onto his plate, when I add, “I didn’t go to the Olympics or anything. It was only in the DFW metro.”
Setting his plate on the coffee table with mine, his smirk swells into a smile and his eyes heat. Hitching a leg, he turns toward me and he’s so close, he doesn’t have to reach far to trace the top of my bare foot with his index finger as he lowers his voice. “I didn’t know that. It’s almost as impressive as the Forbes list.”
I barely shake my head and take a deep breath, trying not to like him so close, like he was during the first moments we met. Even so, I’m straight with him just like I am with everyone. “My point is, I don’t like how you’ve gotten to know me—how you know things about me I’d never tell someone I just met.”
He loses his smile and his light touch on my foot turns into a heavy grip around my ankle, but not in a way that makes me feel uncomfortable. If a touch could be an apology, his would be on his knees in a grovel. But his words don’t back that up. Instead, he whispers, “Tell me something else I don’t know.”
I take in a big breath. “The night we met? I don’t enjoy going out like that anymore. I barely enjoyed it in college.”
He nods once. “We have that in common, then.”
“Really?” I can’t help it, I feel myself frown. “I figured that was just an act since you were working and I was your target.”
“Jen,” he bites out. “We can’t talk about that.”
It doesn’t matter how much I like him here, he’s crazy if he thinks he can waltz into my home and police the conversation. Especially when I’m reminded constantly how he investigated me and knew who I was the first night we met but pretended he didn’t, making me feel like the butt of some sick joke even though he’s halfway explained it. Pulling away from his touch, I put my feet to the floor and grab our dirty dishes.
As I’m stuffing them in the dishwasher with more force than they rightly deserve, his long, jean clad legs appear in front of me. When I stand, he crosses his arms and his expression mirrors what it looked like the moment I saw him standing in Montgomery Industries when my nightmare began.
I’m not sure it matters how I feel about him. I don’t know if I can do this. I should tell him to get the fuck out. Scream that I have an army of highly-paid attorneys on my side and I don’t need his help.
I should be angry.
I should tell him I don’t want him here.
But all that would be cold, hard lies.
“Told you I shouldn’t be here,” he reiterates.
“So you said, Elijah the Prophet.” I slam the dishwasher shut and take a step, not giving one shit about the eight inches separating us or that his bulk could overwhelm me in a heartbeat if he so chose. I can’t help it when I get this way. It doesn’t happen often, but I have a temper and, when stupidity pokes me with its branding iron, I lose it. “If you being here will taint your career in such a way that you won’t be the savior of the law enforcement gods any longer, you should go. I can’t imagine having dinner with a federal target is good for business, even if you are trying to keep it on the downlow. But I will not sit here, feed you worthless pieces of information from my childhood, and pretend we’re still in the getting to know you phase. Don’t ever ask me to pretend, Eli. I don’t have the time nor the patience for that kind of bullshit. I’ve had a bad fucking week. Remember, you came on your own. I didn’t invite you here.”
I turn away from him in a huff and the instant I do, I feel his big hand wrap around my bicep. “Hey. Come here.”
I ignore him and try to shrug him off, but he’s having none of it. I’m not sure if it’s an official FBI move or what, but before I know it, his front is to my back, pressing me into the counter. He slides his hands down my arms to entwine his fingers on top of mine and my breath catches as I tense when he wraps our arms under my breasts. I look down and see nothing but his tattoo peeking out from his sleeve. My heart is an erratic mess and, even though he has me pinned, his hold isn’t intimidating—it’s intimate. Too intimate for how this extraordinarily bizarre thing started between us.
“Please.” My voice is small and weak and I hate myself for it. But after my week of dealing with this shit, I’m exhausted and I’m done being strong. “Just go. I can’t handle fake bullshit on top of everything else.”
“I have an older sister.” His voice is low yet strong as he dips his head, his lips moving against my hair. “She’s a lot older than me and I’m thirty-four. I was an accident.”
I shut my eyes and try to block him out while, at the same time, hating that anyone would think of themselves as an accident.
“I grew up in inner-city Chicago. I went to public schools that were rough and saw it all. I’ve got childhood friends who joined gangs and never made it out. Some never made it to their senior year because they bought it in some stupid-ass rivalry gang-war. My other friends were knocking girls up left and right and not giving a shit. I think the only reason I never took one of those roads was because, if I had, my dad would’ve kicked my ass and I was more afraid of him than I was of any gang-banger.”
With a pit in my stomach, I try to control my breathing. I didn’t expect this.
He doesn’t allow me time to comment, ask questions, or apologize that I can’t relate. Instead, he keeps going and I brace. “I chose basketball. I learned it on the street when I was little—there was no organized, country-club bitty-ball in my life. I played streetball until I got to middle school when a coach recognized that under my rough-as-shit, out-of-control play and with some coaching, I could be decent. He made sure that happened.”
I’m not sure if we could be more different and I know this for a fact because I know these country club sports he’s referring to. They might not happen at a country club, but it’s when a parent is willing to throw any amount of money for coaching so their kid could be the best. I know this because my parents were those people. They did it with Cam in football and Ellie with the finest dance academies in North Texas. They tried to do it with me but nothing stuck. I was simply the boring middle child who got good grades but had to work fucking hard for it because I had no real natural talents.
“He became a mentor and made sure I studied as he coached me on the court. I got good—really good. Played basketball all through high school and had my choice of scholarships. It helped being poor—schools liked my story. I went to Harvard on both at
hletic and academic scholarships. Not because I wanted to go to an Ivy League, but because I knew that was my best bet at whatever job I wanted after graduation, so I took the best scholarship I was offered. I’m not only a Certified Fraud Examiner, but also a CPA. So, Jen, you’re not the only one good with numbers. I speak your language. Besides the shit evidence they have on you, this is why I think you’re innocent.”
I exhale and open my eyes. When I do, the first thing I see is us in the reflection from across my great room in the darkened windows. Eli Pettit—tall and broad, wrapped around me. I like the way we look so much, I relax into his chest just a bit.
He puts his lips to my ear. “And I think you’re innocent because I know so much about you. I won’t apologize for that.”
I let out a huff of air and shake my head. Of course, he won’t apologize.
“Your dad started Montgomery Industries before you were born.”
He’s thorough in his job.
“I know what you make a year and that’s without bonuses and other perks.”
He doesn’t move but his arms tighten around me and I shut my eyes, hating that he knows all these things about me.
“I know how much is in your trust fund and that you haven’t touched it since it became available to you at the age of twenty-eight.”
Wow, the FBI doesn’t screw around. And he’s right—my parents didn’t want us squandering money when we were young.
“This is why I know. Your opening shell companies and buying up stock at a low rate only to have your own company buy it back at a premium to take that company private would, in essence, be stealing from your own family.”
My eyes fly open and I find my voice. “I’d never do that.”
He pulls his head back and looks down at me. “Without even laying eyes on you, I knew you wouldn’t. Why would someone steal from a company that will someday be theirs? It doesn’t make sense on paper, not to mention, I told you my instincts are good. It really doesn’t make sense now that I’ve met you.”
“Given your job, I still don’t understand why you’re here.”
He sighs. “I want to get to know you. The you that’s not on paper.”
I roll my eyes. “I think that’s pretty much me, Eli. I’ve lived and breathed my job since college. There’s not much more to me than what you already know.”
He raises a brow. “You came alive in my arms when I had you on the dance floor. That’s the Jen I want to get to know.”
“I have no time in my life for that Jen,” I assure him.
“You know I’ve worked undercover for the last few years. Feels like I’ve lost time. I’m ready to get that back and I can tell there’s more to you than your executive status. I want to see who she is.”
“I’m not sure you’ll like her. She can have a temper,” I warn.
He smirks. “You always talk about yourself in third person?”
I feel my face frown. “No.”
“Good,” he mutters and he looks like he really means it as he pushes away from the counter and goes to my glass door refrigerator where he deposited the beer earlier and grabs two fresh bottles.
He leaves me standing in my kitchen and heads to my sofa where he pops open both bottles and sets one on the coffee table, leaning back with the other. Looking around my kitchen at the mess left behind from our dinner, I put all the to-go boxes in the fridge and wipe everything down after throwing the trash away.
I had my loft cleaned today, so with nothing left to do, I go back to the sofa. Grabbing the fresh beer I assume is for me, I sit in my corner, leaving ample amount of space between us and try to focus on the game.
Sensing him staring at me, my eyes move to him and confirm the sensation.
He’s staring and grinning.
“What?”
“You’re sitting all the way over there like I haven’t had my hands on you before.”
“Are you serious?”
He keeps grinning. “It’s true, so yes. I’m serious.”
“But that was when I thought you were just some guy who was interested in me. Not some guy who was investigating me. As you can tell, it’s hard for me to get past that.”
“I promise you—I’m still a guy who’s interested in you. You need to get past the FBI shit. I can’t change that.”
I narrow my eyes and glare at him.
He lowers his voice. “Come here.”
I roll my eyes.
“I’m not proposing, Jen. Just come and sit by me.”
I can’t help it. That makes me smile even though I try to bite it back.
“I promise not to propose if you come over here and sit close enough where I can put my arm around you. I also promise not to grab your ass for at least fifteen minutes. After that, we’ll see where it goes.”
I give in and shake my head. “Who are you?”
“I’m trying to be a normal guy who’s not an FBI agent, but who still likes your ass.”
“Now you’re talking about yourself in the third person,” I throw at him and realize, aside from playing with my nephew the other night, this is the first time I’ve smiled all week.
“Dammit. I’d say you’re rubbing off on me, but I’d rather you be rubbing up against me. For the last time, are you going to come here or should I come and get you?”
He wouldn’t dare.
He hitches a brow, absolutely daring me.
Oh, what the hell. With my beer in hand, I scoot, closing the monumental distance between us. When I settle in, he puts his arm around my waist and pulls me in tight before slouching down in my sofa, taking me with him.
I decide to give in completely and tuck my shoulder under his arm that’s draped down the side of my body. When he sighs, it sounds like nothing other than complete and utter satisfaction. I have to give him credit for not gloating out loud.
He’s really comfortable and after a few moments, I relax into him farther.
“You like the Mavs?” I ask without looking away from the TV.
“They’re okay. I’m a Bulls fan.”
“Oh, yeah. Chicago.”
“You probably run in the same circles as Marc Cuban, huh?”
I turn to look up at him because I can’t decide if he’s joking or if that was a serious question.
He looks at me and frowns. “I was kidding. You really know Cuban?”
I give a little nod and look back at the game. “Only because we’re in the same philanthropic circles. I’ve met him a few times but it’s not like I’m eating Tex-Mex with him or anything.”
“That’s good.” He gives my waist a squeeze before sliding his hand down to my ass and leaving it there.
I know he can feel it when I smile against his chest because his lips come to my forehead where his voice dips as he gives my ass a squeeze. “That took me less than five minutes.”
I try to wipe the smile from my face but it’s hard. Instead, I take a sip of my beer before settling in, enjoying his hand on me.
Elijah Pettit is an ass man.
Good to know.
Chapter 8
Game Changer
Bree Newman
I should have pushed harder … should’ve gotten a warrant to search her home as well as her office. I need more evidence.
More something.
Over my dead body will Jensen Montgomery get out of this. I’ve worked too hard and too long on this case for her to get off free and clear. I need this indictment under my belt to put in for a promotion. I’m sick of being stuck in white-collar crimes. I might not have a dick hanging between my legs, but I can work a real case. Something besides pushing papers around a desk.
This case was supposed to be a game changer for me. Putting a Montgomery behind bars would carry me a long way. Especially since they brought in Pettit. In just a couple weeks, he’s overshadowing everyone and they’re bowing down to his greatness, kissing his ass, or maybe sucking his dick just to get a piece of the man who made the biggest RICO case in decades.
A nondescript truck pulls out—a Chevy, maybe five or six years old. No way would a Montgomery be caught dead in that ride. She drives a Land Rover and has a Benz. Once in a while that old guy who seems to be a catch-all employee drives her around in the Caddy.
No one has come or gone, so when the truck pulls up to the stoplight at the intersection, I pull out my binoculars to get a closer look.
Shit. It can’t be.
He’s looking down, so I can’t be sure and, besides, we’re downtown. There’s still a lot of traffic even at this time of night.
When the light finally changes, he looks up.
“What the hell?” I mutter to no one.
He puts a wrist to the top of his steering wheel and smiles.
I’ve never seen him smile before.
When he pulls through the intersection in front of me, I scoot down in my seat.
Fuck me. Or should I say, fuck you, Eli Pettit.
If this isn’t a game changer, I don’t know what is.
Chapter 9
This is Happening
Eli
This isn’t the way I planned to return to Jen Montgomery’s less than twelve hours after I left her.
Last night, after I finally got her to settle in with me, we watched the rest of the game and then flipped it over to a movie. We barely got thirty minutes into it when she fell asleep pressed up against me.
It did not suck.
