Hot Asset_21 Wall Street

by Lauren Layne

  OTHER TITLES BY LAUREN LAYNE

  I Do, I Don’t

  Ready to Run

  Runway Groom

  Stiletto and Oxford

  After the Kiss

  Love the One You’re With

  Just One Night

  The Trouble with Love

  Irresistibly Yours

  I Wish You Were Mine

  Someone Like You

  I Knew You Were Trouble

  I Think I Love You

  Love Unexpectedly (stand-alone novels)

  Blurred Lines

  Good Girl

  Love Story

  Walk of Shame

  An Ex for Christmas

  The Wedding Belles

  From This Day Forward (novella)

  To Have and to Hold

  For Better or Worse

  To Love and to Cherish

  New York’s Finest

  Frisk Me

  Steal Me

  Cuff Me

  Redemption

  Isn’t She Lovely

  Broken

  Crushed

  The Best Mistake

  Only with You

  Made for You

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2018 by Lauren Layne

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake Romance are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503901063

  ISBN-10: 1503901068

  Cover design by Letitia Hasser

  Cover photography by Wander Aguiar

  For Kristi Yanta—

  for bringing out my best writing as an editor

  and bringing out my best self as a friend

  CONTENTS

  1 IAN

  2 LARA

  3 IAN

  4 LARA

  5 IAN

  6 LARA

  7 IAN

  8 LARA

  9 IAN

  10 LARA

  11 IAN

  12 LARA

  13 IAN

  14 LARA

  15 IAN

  16 LARA

  17 IAN

  18 LARA

  19 IAN

  20 LARA

  21 IAN

  22 LARA

  23 IAN

  24 LARA

  25 IAN

  26 LARA

  27 IAN

  28 LARA

  29 IAN

  30 LARA

  31 IAN

  32 LARA

  33 IAN

  34 LARA

  35 IAN

  36 LARA

  37 IAN

  38 LARA

  Epilogue LARA

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  SNEAK PEEK: HARD SELL

  1 MATT

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  1

  IAN

  On paper, I’m a douchebag. Yeah, I said it so you don’t have to.

  Don’t believe me? Here’s a crash course in Ian Bradley:

  The charcoal-gray suit I’m currently wearing costs more than my first car. I’m six foot two, black hair, blue eyes, and I work out every day, so I wear that suit well, if you get what I’m saying, and you know you do.

  At thirty-two, I’m an investment broker—director level, thank you very much—for Wolfe Investments. And let’s just say, work hard, play hard is basically the unspoken company motto.

  I’ve got a corner office, a seven-figure salary, a swanky apartment in Manhattan’s Financial District, and I never sleep with the same woman twice—because I don’t have to.

  Did I mention I went to Yale? Managed to graduate top of my class and get all the usual college bad decisions under my belt. Achieving both a thriving social life and summa cum laude at an Ivy League is no easy task, let me tell you.

  So, like I said—I’m basically the poster boy for “Wall Street dickhead.”

  But don’t hate me just yet, because here’s what that Ian Bradley poster doesn’t say:

  Unlike the rest of my fraternity, that Ivy League education didn’t come courtesy of a trust fund and four generations of Yale alumni to get me in the door. More like three jobs, an academic scholarship, and a shit-ton of financial aid.

  As a kid, my spoon was plastic, not silver, and was provided by a cranky but kind gas-service attendant in South Philly because most of my foster parents didn’t give a fuck whether or not I ate.

  That cushy corner office I just told you about? Mine came from sheer force of will and about a decade of no sleep.

  And while that seven-figure salary puts a swanky Manhattan roof over my head, it also provides college education for Philly foster kids who are willing to work for it.

  Have you started a mocking slow clap yet? Yeah, that’s fair.

  But the point is there’s never been a damn thing I worked for and didn’t get through relentless hard work and hustle.

  Until her.

  And that’s where my story really begins.

  Week 1: Monday Afternoon

  It’s three o’clock on “Merger Monday,” and I need more caffeine.

  Monday is the day of the week where a shit-ton of mergers between companies is announced. For my colleagues and me at Wolfe Investments, that means a lot of time staring at the list, making phone calls, trying to figure out what’s huge, what’s pay attention, and what’s who cares among the deals.

  In other words, it’s necessary but mind-numbing, especially after a late night, and, well . . . they’re all late nights in my world.

  I step out of my office for a Starbucks run, and the second I do, the office door across from mine opens, and a stunning brunette in a tight red dress gives me a slow smile. “Hey, Ian.”

  I smile back at my colleague. “Joss.”

  She leans against the doorframe and strategically crosses her arms to emphasize her cleavage before giving me a slow once-over. “Busy?”

  Subtlety’s not her strong suit. Hell, it’s not any of ours here at Wolfe.

  “’Fraid so.”

  Her eyes narrow. “I haven’t seen you around.”

  She’s seen me around plenty. She just means she hasn’t seen me naked since the gin-fueled mistake last week that I have no intention of repeating. Not because she’s not hot, but because I don’t do do-overs.

  The moment the challenge is over, so’s the appeal.

  I’m not proud of it, but it’s always been that way—faulty wiring, I suppose.

  “Sorry, been busy.” I give her a wink, then turn to head down the hall.

  “Is Kennedy around?” she calls after me.

  I smirk a little at the too-obvious question. If she’s trying to make me jealous, she’s wrong on both counts. I don’t do jealous, and Kennedy Dawson doesn’t do office hookups. Even if he did, my friend doesn’t touch my leftovers. Wall Street has a guy code.

  “No clue,” I call over my shoulder.

  I’m texting my Monday Starbucks barista to let her know I’ll be there in five (no point waiting in line when a twenty-dollar tip has your drink waiting for you) when a pair of excellent female legs in the break room catches my attention.

  I slow, trying to see what I’m dealing with here. I don’t recognize the calves. Not the ass or slim waist, either, and I’d definitely remember the long blonde ponytail that’s got just the right amount of grown-up ch
eerleader fantasy going on.

  Hot. Very hot.

  Still, I’ve got shit to do, and I’m about to pass on by when I hear the woman talking to herself. “How are there eight milk options?”

  I smile at the genuine bafflement in her voice. Shoving both hands into my pockets, I step into the kitchen to see firsthand if the face is as great as the body. “Well, I’m no expert, but off the top of my head, whole, two percent, skim, soy, almond unsweetened, almond sweetened with vanilla, coconut . . .”

  She whirls around at my voice, and my head snaps back a little when I see her face-to-face.

  Not because I know her but because I want to know her. For one bizarre-ass moment, the woman feels meant for me.

  The kicker? She’s not even my type.

  I like my women with flirty smiles, quick laughs, great bodies, and a solid understanding of what I’m looking for: a good time for one night only.

  This woman . . . I’m not entirely sure she’d know a good time if it swatted her on the ass. Her blonde hair is parted down the middle, pulled back away from her good-girl features. She’s not particularly well endowed up top, and though the flare to her hips is worth a second look, her blouse and prim skirt are all business, her bra probably white and cotton. Or worse, beige and cotton. I won’t even get started on her purse, which is huge and brown and ugly.

  Nothing about her, save the great legs, explains why I’m itching to unravel her inch by inch.

  Except the glasses.

  Yeah, it’s definitely the glasses that do it for me.

  Sexy black frames with a vaguely naughty-librarian vibe that are pure fantasy material. They enhance the sexy punch of her wide blue gaze that’s thoroughly . . .

  Suspicious.

  She’s holding a file folder in one hand, and she taps the corner against the palm of her other, saying nothing as she gives me a once-over.

  When her gaze slides back up to mine, I’m expecting the admiring smile I usually get from women, but she looks . . .

  Bored?

  Which leaves me feeling off-balance. So off-balance that instead of a smooth pickup line, I find myself nodding at the machine on the counter. “You need help with that?”

  Her eyebrows lift. “Do I need help with what? Pushing buttons?”

  You can push my buttons anytime.

  Her eyes narrow, and I get the sense she’s read my unspoken words and found them lacking. I’m annoyed. And intrigued. It’s been far too long since I’ve had a challenge.

  I ease a step closer to her, moving toward the espresso machine. She doesn’t get the least bit flustered by my proximity, so I lean against the machine, patting the top of it with my hand. “Just say the word. Happy to mansplain this to you, little lady,” I say with an exaggerated drawl.

  She responds in kind, fluttering her eyelashes, the glasses making the gesture even more mocking. “Oh, could you?”

  I smile, enjoying her more than I expected. “What are you drinking?”

  “Coffee.”

  I roll my eyes. “What kind?”

  “Caffeinated,” she says, pulling out one of the company mugs, setting it beneath the spout, and punching the standard drip-coffee option.

  “Boring,” I declare.

  “Classic,” she counters.

  I give her a slow smile. “I’m headed to Starbucks. Let me buy you a real drink.”

  She lifts her mug. “I’m good with this.”

  “You could be better with something else,” I say, lowering my voice.

  She surprises me by laughing, and not a flirty, breathless laugh but an at me laugh. “Seriously? Do these lines usually work for you?”

  “Honestly?” I give a small smile. “Yeah.”

  “Well ”—she sips her coffee—“let me know when I’m supposed to fake the swoon.”

  You wouldn’t be faking anything with me, sweetheart.

  I reach out my right hand. “Ian Bradley.”

  She ignores the hand and nods. “Nice to meet you.”

  I lean forward and whisper, “This is the point where you give me your name.”

  She leans forward and whispers back, “This is the point where you take the hint that I’m not interested in what you’re offering.”

  Challenge accepted.

  She starts to move around me, clearly planning to walk away, but I’m not about to let that happen. I step forward. “Have drinks with me.”

  “No, thank you.” She sounds almost amused in her rejection.

  “Why not?” I keep the question light, but truthfully? I want to know. It’s not often a woman tells me no, even less common that I care. But here I am fantasizing about her naked, and she could not look more disinterested if she tried.

  “Oh, so many reasons,” she says with a sly smile, as she uses her folder to gesture at my neck. “That fresh hickey, for starters.”

  I resist the urge to cover the mark with my hand. Damn the little vampire-inclined bartender from last night.

  “Hmm,” I muse. “You sure it’s a hickey? Maybe it’s a bad reaction to whatever my dry cleaner did to this shirt.”

  The mystery blonde lifts her cup of coffee. “Well now, that’s another reason. I don’t like a guy with a rash.”

  I laugh, more intrigued than ever by her sharp tongue. “Who are you?”

  “Someone you’re going to regret asking to drinks,” she says with a small I’ve got a secret smile.

  “Why—”

  “Ian.”

  I turn toward the interruption, tamping down my annoyance when I see it’s my assistant, Kate, who looks . . .

  Horrified.

  I straighten and forget about Blondie for a moment. “Kate, what’s up?”

  She swallows, shooting a nervous look at the woman beside me. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. You’re not answering your phone . . .”

  “Shit, I forgot to take it off ‘Do Not Disturb’ after my last meeting,” I say, pulling my phone out of my pocket. Sure enough, I have four missed text messages and three missed calls, all from Kate.

  I feel my stomach drop out at her first text; my heart skips a beat at the second.

  I look up at Kate, now understanding her horrified expression. “The SEC’s here?”

  Holy hell.

  The Securities and Exchange Commission is the government’s guard dog against financial crimes, only it’s not a badass, useful guard dog.

  Nope, the SEC is like a yipping little lapdog, determined to bite ankles, shit all over the place, and ultimately be a huge pain in the ass while providing zero value to anyone other than their own plus-size egos.

  “Who’re they after?” I ask.

  But I already know. I’ve worked with Kate long enough to know that look on her face, to know when something’s wrong.

  They’re after me.

  And when the nameless blonde behind me takes a casual sip of her coffee, suddenly it hits me why Kate looks so horrified.

  It’s not just because an SEC investigator is investigating me . . .

  It’s because I was just flirting with one.

  I slowly turn and face the woman, and she doesn’t even bother to hide her amusement as she tucks the folder under her arm and finally extends her hand to introduce herself.

  I shake her hand out of habit, even as ice settles in the pit of my stomach as our eyes meet. Gone is my fantasy good-girl librarian, and in her place is my nightmare: the Securities and Exchange Commission.

  She smiles wider at my obvious discomfort. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Bradley. I’m Lara McKenzie with the SEC. Here to inform you that you’re under investigation for insider trading.”

  2

  LARA

  Week 1: Monday Afternoon

  Is it wrong that I enjoyed that so much? Maybe.

  Is it right that I want to celebrate it with champagne?

  Not if I don’t drink alone.

  I pull out my phone and text my best friend / roommate, who’s not only always up for champagne but whose fr
eelance model schedule means there’s at least a fifty-fifty chance she’ll be free at three thirty on a Monday.

  Happy Hour? I text, adding the champagne emoji for good measure.

  Gabby responds immediately. Who is this, and how did you steal my best friend’s phone?

  I roll my eyes. It’s me, Gab.

  Prove it. How did we meet?

  Tampon passed under the bathroom stall at Boca.

  Super or Light?

  Omg, do you want to grab drinks or not?

  This is the first time you’ve EVER texted me for drinks before six p.m. You understand my skepticism.

  She has a point. My job as an investigator for the Securities and Exchange Commission doesn’t exactly allow for flexible hours and day drinking.

  In fact, if I’m being honest, it’s quite possibly the least sexy job on the planet. But I’m good at it, and it’s a necessary step on my path toward my endgame:

  The FBI.

  The bureau runs in my blood—Dad’s an agent; Mom’s an agent.

  I will be an agent, just as soon as I do my time with the SEC. See, while Dad’s National Security and Mom’s Science and Technology, neither “in” is particularly helpful for my own career aspirations.

  I want to be part of the white-collar division. I want to deal with art theft and Ponzi schemes and those slick criminals who turn thousands of lives upside down every day without even a flicker of guilty conscience.

  But . . . I want to earn my spot there—not have Mom or Dad put in a phone call. Doing my time at the SEC’s as good an “in” as any; I just need my big break to get Quantico’s attention.

  And rumor has it around the SEC that the Ian Bradley case is going to be the one to change everything.

  Hence the champagne.

  Gabby and I agree to meet in thirty at a wine bar around the corner from our Lower East Side apartment.

  I slide my phone back into my purse, still smiling at the unexpected perk of seeing Ian Bradley’s face when he learned the news. I know that sounds awful, relishing in someone else’s oh shit moment, but here’s the thing. These Wall Street guys . . . it’s like . . . I don’t even know how to explain.

  It’s like they’re not real.

  Objectively, of course I know they breathe oxygen and bleed red. (Although I wouldn’t be surprised if some of the ones I’ve met out on a Friday night bleed single-malt scotch.)

  They’re just so dang confident, so convinced that they live on a different plane from the rest of us.