Hot Asset_21 Wall Street

by Lauren Layne

  “Sorry.” I sit up straighter. “What?”

  Her brown eyes narrow just slightly, full lips pursing as she sits back in the chair across the desk and studies me.

  “Ian,” she says finally. “What do you know about me?”

  “Uh . . .” My brain scrambles. Is this a trick question? It feels like a trick question.

  “Why do you think I took your case?” she amends, apparently reading my panic.

  I relax. I got this. “Because you believe I’m innocent.”

  It’s the other reason I’m damn impressed by the woman. In addition to having a near-flawless record, she’s got something rarer than her legal brass: integrity.

  It’s an interesting quirk that’s earned her as much disdain as it has admiration.

  I’m in the latter category.

  Being cleared of all allegations is my top priority, obviously, but I don’t want it to be at the hands of some snake who doesn’t care one way or the other whether I’m a criminal douchebag.

  “I do believe you’re innocent,” Vanessa says, bringing my attention back to her. “And I’m glad I was able to take on your case. But just as I expect my clients to be honest with me, I believe in being honest with them.”

  “And?”

  “Your case isn’t looking good, Ian.”

  I tense, my fingers resuming their tapping on the desk. “You know this already?”

  She lifts a shoulder. “I have more research to do, obviously. But here’s what’s bothering me . . . typically, when the SEC gets some sort of tip about insider trading, they’ll launch an informal investigation to vet their source and determine the potential legitimacy of the accusation. Which they have. But so far, I’ve seen what they’ve seen from the files, and there’s not much there. There’s zero connection between you and J-Conn that I’ve found, which means they haven’t found it, either.”

  I try to follow. “Isn’t that a good thing?”

  She shakes her head. “Not even a little bit. With the lack of concrete evidence I’m seeing, Lara McKenzie should have packed her bags by now. Instead, she’s still camped out in that conference room pushing papers around.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Whatever tip they received, whatever evidence they think they can find, they’re damn sure they can win with it,” she says matter-of-factly.

  Shit.

  “Nor do I love that it’s Lara McKenzie working your case,” Vanessa continues. “She looks like a lamb but thinks like a fox. What are your impressions of her?”

  Well, hell. I can’t tell her the truth—that Lara and her hot glasses are playing on repeat in my dirtiest fantasies. Beneath me, above me, in front of me bent over my desk . . .

  But I can’t lie to her, either. Or rather, I could, but Vanessa made it clear in our first meeting that if she ever found out I was lying, she’d drop my case faster than a bad oyster. Her words.

  “She seems by the book,” I evade. “Follows the rules.”

  Vanessa nods. “That’s precisely why she’s so good and, I fear, is exactly why they put her on your case. McKenzie’s reputation is nearly as good as mine. She doesn’t power play, doesn’t grandstand. She gathers and recites facts, and judges love her for it.”

  “She can’t recite facts she doesn’t have, though. So unless she’s making them up . . .”

  “Okay, let’s back up,” Vanessa says, her tone switching to soothing. “We need to figure out why you’re in their crosshairs. They’re here because they got a tip, but we don’t know who’s accusing you of insider trading or why.”

  “I already told you—”

  “I know, I know, no mortal enemies, no archrival out to take you down,” she interrupts. “But look, Ian, this isn’t a movie. The person behind this isn’t going to be lurking in your peripheral vision making overt threats with a sinister laugh. The answer will be in the subtleties.”

  “I don’t really do subtleties,” I say honestly. “In anything.”

  She surprises me by laughing. “So I’ve heard. But it’s time to start, at least for this.”

  Vanessa stands and pushes a blank yellow legal pad across the desk to me. “I want you to make a list of every person you’ve crossed paths with in the last year. Hell, make it the last two years. Anyone who might be jealous, resentful, pissed, write their name down. Don’t discount people you think are friends. Anyone who you’ve toasted Pappy with, write it down.”

  “I don’t drink bourbon,” I mutter.

  “Negronis, then, whatever.”

  I glance up in surprise that she knows my favorite drink.

  She lifts her eyebrows. “I told you I’d do my homework. If we want to win this thing, I’m going to need to learn every little detail about you. I need to know every secret, every birthmark on your balls—”

  I hold up my finger. “Don’t have one of those.” I’m pretty sure.

  She taps a coral-painted nail against the legal pad. “Names, Ian. Write them down, and do it today. Time’s against us here. Their persistence makes me think they’re damn determined to turn this into a formal investigation, and if they do, our chances of winning get lopped off at the knees.”

  I swallow, a lot less confident now than I was at the beginning of the meeting.

  She stands and gives me a perfunctory nod. “I’ll be in touch,” she says, punching something on her phone.

  I pick up a pen as Vanessa strolls out the door, phone already glued to her ear.

  Pivoting my chair, I turn to take in the overcast afternoon, tapping my pen against the pad. I know I should be thinking about myself, trying to figure out who might be looking to take me down, but I can’t stop thinking about how Lara and I are quite possibly looking for the exact same thing: what the hell is tying me to J-Conn.

  The irony is, I don’t have a fucking clue.

  I’ve just started the process of naming all the jackasses on Wall Street when Matt enters my office without knocking.

  “How’d it go with the lawyer?”

  I glance up, grateful for the distraction. “The good news is she believes I’m innocent.”

  “And the bad?”

  I drop my pen and rub my hands through my hair. “The SEC still doesn’t.”

  He grunts and drops into the chair across from me. “We’re still sure it’s J-Conn they’re sniffing after?”

  I shrug. “Lara more or less confirmed it.”

  His eyebrows go up. “Lara?”

  “Ms. McKenzie. Whatever.” I wave my hand in the air. “We need to figure out who would lie to the SEC about me and why.”

  Matt looks at the pad on my desk. “That your list?”

  “Start of it. You got anyone?”

  “Fuck the list. It’s a shot in the dark. If you want to know who contacted the SEC, you’ve got to go straight to the source.”

  I shake my head. “I already tried that, remember? She won’t say shit.”

  “That was last week. Try again.”

  “What do you want me to do, interrogate her?”

  “Whatever it takes, man. Your charm didn’t work before, so use your other ace up the sleeve.”

  “I’m better with the ace in my pants.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Keep it zipped. What I meant was wear her down. In everything else, you’re relentless about getting what you want, but you’re pulling your punches with her. Why?”

  I glance down at the notepad. He’s right. I hate that he’s right. Hate even more that I don’t have an answer for him. Not one I’m ready to admit out loud, anyway.

  “She’s not pulling her punches with you,” Matt says quietly. “She followed you the other day to get the information she wanted.”

  “So?”

  “So maybe it’s time she got a little taste of her own medicine.”

  12

  LARA

  Week 2: Friday Night

  My best friend has a lot of good qualities, quite a few useful skills.

  Her matchmaking abilities?


  Not among her virtues.

  I pull my phone out of my purse and check the time again.

  7:20.

  Either my blind date is twenty minutes late or he’s standing me up.

  And I suppose it says a lot about me that I can’t decide which is worse: the prospect of enduring a bad date or no date at all.

  My love life’s not exactly what you’d call thriving. My longest relationship was last year, lasted five months, and ended with about as much excitement as it started, which isn’t saying much.

  Let’s just say life as an SEC agent doesn’t seem to spark much chemistry on the romantic front. Even when I do manage to put work out of my mind, I think guys smell the workaholic on me.

  Best I can tell, guys want the fun party girl or the soft, marriageable girl. I’m neither. I’m not sure I’m even the “hot career woman,” because even she is supposed to know how to relax at the end of the night, and, well . . . it’s not a skill I’ve mastered.

  Most of the time I’m okay with that. I’ve learned that at this stage in my life, I can focus on my career or guys, but not both.

  See: my dead orchids.

  I cringe, still hating that I let Ian’s jab get to me the other day. They’re flowers, for God’s sake. It’s just . . . if I can’t keep a flower alive, how the heck am I supposed to figure out how to make a relationship work long-term?

  A server approaches, and bless him for having perfected his nonjudgmental look as I sit alone at a table set for two. “Something from the bar while you wait?”

  I smile, grateful that we’re both pretending this isn’t the second time he’s asked. “Yes, please.” Anything. “I’ll take a glass of white wine. Something fresh, not too sweet. Surprise me.”

  He nods. “I know just the thing.”

  If it’s alcoholic, I’m sure it’ll be fine.

  I text Gabby. No sign of your guy. He say anything?

  She responds immediately. Shit, really? No, let me text him.

  The server drops off my wine, and I smile in thanks as another text message comes through, this one from my mother.

  Hey sweetie, up for a phone chat tomorrow? Sorry I’ve been so busy.

  No prob, I text back. Been nuts here, too. Would lunchtime work?

  Got a working lunch with my team. How about five? I’ll call you.

  Sounds great.

  Actually, that might be pushing it. Is seven okay?

  I take a sip of wine and try not to let it sting that my fiftysomething mother has a busier schedule than me.

  Sure.

  Perfect. How are things?

  Oh gosh, how are things? Let’s review . . .

  I’m at the first date I’ve had in months—alone.

  I’m the closest I’ve ever been to the FBI, but the case that is supposed to get my foot in the door at Quantico is a nonstarter because I can’t find a single piece of evidence—after nearly two weeks of looking.

  And I kill flowers for a hobby.

  I text her back. Things are great!

  I take a deep breath, feeling a little guilty about the lie but knowing even if I did lay it all out there, my mom wouldn’t know what to do with it. I love my mom—I adore both my parents—but they’re not the type of parents who believe in being their kid’s best friends. Which is fine, it’s just . . .

  I wish they would have noticed that nobody wanted to be my best friend. I mean, I have Gabby now, but up until I lucked out with her as a roommate, my friendship life was about as thriving as my romantic life.

  People respect me. Most even like me. But it’s all surface level. I’m never the one people call in the middle of the night with guy problems. And as a result, I have no one to call with my guy problems. Not that I’ve had a relationship long enough to even have a guy problem . . .

  I scan the room again, looking for the guy Gabby described. Reddish-brown hair, great jaw, glasses. Not super tall but not awkwardly short, either.

  I don’t see anyone matching that description.

  You know who I do see?

  Ian Bradley.

  At first I think it’s a dream. Sorry, did I say dream? I meant nightmare.

  This isn’t happening to me. I am not sitting alone at a table, clearly getting stood up, while the one person who’d like nothing more than to see me while I’m down sits at the bar sipping a cocktail.

  Either this is some sort of hideous coincidence, or . . .

  He looks over right then, his gaze colliding with mine with such deliberate purpose that I know immediately this is no chance encounter.

  It’s revenge for last week when I followed him.

  I close my eyes just for a moment, opening them only when my phone buzzes with another incoming text. It’s Gabby.

  So sorry, babe. His boss offered him tickets to the Yankees tonight. He’s a huge baseball fan, forgot all about the date.

  Fannnnn-tastic.

  I’m texting her back when a shadow appears over my table.

  Bracing, I look up, keeping my face composed. “Hello, Mr. Bradley.”

  His eyes flick over me, then the table. “Ms. McKenzie. Enjoying your evening?”

  “Very much.”

  His smirk calls my bluff.

  “You here for dinner?” I ask, my voice never wavering in politeness even as the back of my neck’s hot with embarrassment to be caught in a vulnerable moment.

  “Nope, just grabbing a drink on my way home.”

  “This isn’t exactly near your apartment or office.”

  The smirk disappears, and his eyes narrow. “How do you know where my apartment is?”

  “I know everything,” I say, seeing no reason to hide the fact that I know just about every possible detail on Ian that’s public record.

  “Yeah? How’s that evidence collecting going?” he asks, his voice deceptively casual.

  I’m not in the mood to play games, so I ignore his question and cut to the chase. “Did you know I’d be here?”

  “Kate may have overheard you setting up your date,” he says with a pointed glance at the empty chair.

  I sigh. “I knew it. This is revenge for last week.”

  “Revenge is a strong word, Ms. McKenzie. Let’s merely call this a lesson.”

  “In what, stalking?”

  “You want to talk about stalking?” he asks, dropping into the empty chair across from me, his blue gaze intense. “Try going to a casual lunch with your oldest friend, wanting a brief break from the shitstorm that your life’s become, and the very woman causing said shitstorm follows you.”

  I feel a little stab of guilt. “It’s not personal, Mr. Bradley.”

  “Bullshit,” he snaps. “Does this moment feel personal to you, when you’re the one being followed?”

  “Yes, but you—”

  “Crashed your date? Infiltrated your life? Does it feel personal, Ms. McKenzie?”

  Both of our tempers are simmering, and I take a sip of water to cool my own. “You’re trying to make me feel guilty for doing my job.”

  “No, I’m trying to show you that the impact of your job isn’t as clean and impersonal as you pretend.”

  “Fine,” I say calmly. “Noted.”

  “Are you saying that because you feel bad about intruding on my lunch the other day or because you want me to leave?”

  “Both?”

  He studies me for a moment, then nods. “All right, then. Apology accepted.”

  “I don’t know that it was an apology.”

  His eyebrows lift.

  I sigh. “Okay, fine. I’m sorry I didn’t leave the restaurant after I saw you were there on personal business. Now will you leave?”

  He surprises me by grinning. “Nope.” He winks and reaches for my wineglass, lifting it in question. “What are we drinking?”

  “We aren’t drinking anything. I’m having a glass of white wine. You were just leaving.”

  He glances at his watch and takes a sip of the wine—my wine. “Seven thirty-four. Your date is fo
ur minutes late.”

  Actually, my date is thirty-four minutes late, and that’s if he were coming, which he’s not.

  I don’t say this, obviously. The last thing I need is to be even a tiny bit vulnerable in front of someone who’d love nothing better than to see me humiliated.

  “Yes, I’m sure he’ll be here any minute, so if you don’t mind . . . ,” I say, wiggling my fingers in a shooing motion.

  Ian sets my wineglass down in front of me.

  I try not to sag in relief that he’s leaving, his little demonstration over. “Enjoy your evening, Mr. Brad—Wait, what are you doing?” I ask in panic as he picks up the neatly folded napkin and places it on his suited lap.

  “Joining you for dinner.”

  “But—”

  “Your date’s not coming, Ms. McKenzie. Now, have you or have you not been bugging my assistant to get some time on my calendar?”

  “Yes, but she’s playing hardball and won’t put me on your calendar until next week. I have some questions I need answers to before then—”

  “About J-Conn, sure. And I’ll answer them, but only if you give me something in return.” His gaze drops to my mouth, just for a moment.

  I narrow my eyes. “I’m not sleeping with you.”

  His smile is slow and cocky as hell. “Famous last words. But that’s actually not what I was angling for. I was thinking a question for a question. For every question I answer, you have to answer one of mine.”

  “That’s not how this works, Mr. Bradley.”

  He shrugs and starts to set his napkin back on the table. “Good luck getting your subpoena, then, because that’s the only other way—”

  “Fine,” I say, a little desperate. “A question for a question.”

  He grins and drops the napkin back into his lap. “Perfect. But first things first . . . we’re going to need more drinks.”

  13

  IAN

  Week 2: Friday Night

  My lawyer’s going to kill me.

  I’m pretty sure when the bosses told me to cooperate with the SEC, this isn’t what they’d meant.

  Having a dinner in a cozy East Village French bistro’s not exactly what I had planned, either. Hell, I can’t even remember my plan. It all went out the window the second I came in and saw Lara sitting all alone, looking so unexpectedly vulnerable my chest had ached.