by Lauren Layne
“Ian,” I whisper, pleading. “Please.” I don’t know what I’m asking for, but he does.
His hands gently cup my face, pulling me closer. The second his mouth closes over mine, I don’t give a damn about right and wrong, or black and white, or rules and protocols.
I only give a damn about him, about the way he makes me feel.
His lips own mine with complete possession, his kiss as confident as it is skilled. But it’s the need that undoes me piece by piece, the desperation in the way he holds me close . . .
He breaks the connection far too soon, breathing hard as his eyes lock on mine. “Figure it out,” he says roughly, stepping back. “And let me know when Ms. McKenzie catches up with Lara.”
“Ian, wait . . .”
But he doesn’t. He walks out the door without another word.
I touch my fingers to my swollen lips, dimly registering that my phone’s buzzing with an incoming message. I dive for it, hoping it’s him.
It’s not. In fact, come to think of it, he doesn’t even have my phone number.
The text message is from my dad. Good news. Rumor has it white collar is expanding head count. I MAY have found a way to mention that a letter of recommendation was coming through for my favorite daughter in the near future . . .
The message is accompanied by a winky-face emoji.
It’s a first from my dad, both the emoji and the show of support. I close my eyes and try to ward off the wave of frustration that I’m finally getting everything I want . . .
And yet I’m terrified that what I need just walked out my front door.
21
IAN
Week 4: Thursday Night
“Are my boobs lopsided? The new bra and tight dress don’t seem to be getting along. Ian?”
“Nope,” I say, refusing to look down at my friend’s cleavage. “I don’t know how many times I can say it—I refuse to analyze your breasts.”
Sabrina huffs and turns to Matt. “Fine. Cannon, since Ian’s a prude and I don’t know where Kate and Kennedy wandered off to, help me out.”
Matt has none of my hesitations and takes his time checking out Sabrina’s chest. “Right one’s kicked up a notch too high. Hope you didn’t pay your plastic surgeon too much.”
Sabrina doesn’t bother to get offended as she hands him her champagne flute to hold, turns away from the crowd, and adjusts her boobs. “These are one hundred percent me,” she informs Matt coolly. “I’d offer to let you find out for yourself, but oh wait . . . been there, done that. Snore.”
I wince and finish my drink. “No sharing whatever you two did to each other, remember?” I’ve been dodging the details for years. I’d like to keep it that way.
“But—”
“Nope,” I tell Sabrina. “My party, my rules.”
“It’s one hell of a party,” Matt says.
He’s right, I guess. There’s an unspoken rule on Wall Street that a party’s not a party unless it’s overly extravagant as hell. Caviar. Dom. Foie gras. Top-shelf everything.
Not that I take care of any of it personally. I have Kate make a couple of phone calls, and hours later, my apartment is transformed. The entire corner of my living room is a bar; I have one tuxedoed server to every five guests, the best caterers in New York.
It’s a scene I’ve become plenty familiar with over the years, but tonight it feels . . . different. Stale.
And yet necessary.
Whoever set me up to take the fall for an imaginary J-Conn connection is someone in my world. This world. Maybe not someone here tonight, but someone’s got to know something, and I’m determined to find it.
At least, that’s the plan.
Once Sabrina’s cleavage is restored to proper symmetry, she takes her champagne from Matt and turns to face the partygoers. “I’m loathe to agree with him, but this is an impressive turnout for the last-minute invite.”
It is. Just a few weeks ago, I’d have been thrilled, half-drunk with both booze and the power my name commands on an invitation. Now, however, nothing feels quite right. Just like at Pearl last week, I feel like I’m looking at someone else’s life, and not one I particularly envy.
I sigh, surveying the crowd. “I’m pretty sure half these people are just here for bragging rights. They want to be among the last to see my place before my new home is a jail cell.”
“You’re not going to prison,” Sabrina says, linking her arm with mine. “Isn’t that why we’re having this party? To pump Wall Street elite for info?”
Matt catches my eye over her head and gives me a nod. The party plan was half his idea, a last-ditch effort to figure out who the hell’s trying to torpedo me. I invited twenty-five guests—about as many as can fit comfortably in my small apartment. Instead, I’ve counted close to fifty. It’s a tight fit, even with a few spilling onto my balcony, others chatting it up in my office. Many of them I don’t even know. I’d only been half joking when I’d told Sabrina they were here to see me off before I serve two to five for insider trading.
Damn the SEC.
Damn Lara McKenzie and her process and her sweet little mouth.
And damn me for caring so much. For letting it get under my skin that she doesn’t believe in me. That whatever’s between us isn’t enough to override her rigid rules and her blind adherence to a system that clearly isn’t working.
She needed time, and I get that—or I’ve been trying to get that. I bombarded her that night at her apartment, so I’ve tried to respect she needed a moment to sort things out, but it’s been days. Plenty of time to acknowledge my innocence.
I’m hurt, yes. But also . . . pissed.
Kennedy winds through the crowd, two drinks in hand—Manhattan for him, Negroni for me. “Kate saw you were empty.”
I accept the drink gratefully. “We don’t pay her enough. Where is she, anyway?”
“Last I saw, she was chatting up one of the juniors from Morris and Keale.”
“I don’t know any of the juniors from M and K.”
He shrugs. “Since when has that mattered? You know how this goes. They catch a whisper of free booze and big names . . .”
“Yeah, I get it,” I grumble. “Hell, that was me once.”
He gives me an exasperated look. “Ian, that was you just weeks ago.”
I grunt. He’s right, and we both know what changed me. Who changed me.
I rub a hand over the back of my neck. “When did we start getting too old for this?”
“Speak for yourself,” Matt says.
“Really?” Sabrina says to him. “I don’t see you mingling with the young sprites. You’re wallflowering with us old farts, too.”
“We’re not wallflowering because we’re actually old. We’re just . . .” I glance at Kennedy and Matt for help. “Well, what the hell are we doing over here in the corner?”
“Not getting any closer to figuring out who’s running his mouth to the SEC about you, that’s for sure,” Matt points out.
Sabrina sighs. “Hell’s frozen over, because I’m about to agree with him again. Boy Wonder is right. We’ve got the cream of the Wall Street crop all in one place, all on their way to drunk.” She drains her drink. “Break to mingle?”
“Fantastic. Because I love small talk,” Kennedy grumbles.
“Do it for Ian,” Sabrina says, patting his arm.
“That’s why I’m here. But I draw the line at talking about the weather,” he says, with a thump on the back as he says it. The gesture’s brief but telling.
I start to open my mouth to thank him. To thank all of them, but I don’t know what to say.
Kennedy gives me a brief, rare smile. “You’d do it for me.”
“Damn straight,” I say, grateful that he understands what I’m not able to put into words. “But I’d talk about the weather for you!” I call after his retreating back.
Sabrina and Matt break off as well, Sabrina to charm an MD from a competing firm, Matt to flirt with a group of women dressed in n
early identical black dresses. I’m about to join Matt and the women, figuring female interaction with someone who’s not an SEC investigator might be exactly what I need, when a hand clamps on my shoulder.
“Ian, man!” I turn and shake hands with . . . Shit, what’s his name? A director from Green Garrison . . . Jacob. Jacob Houghton.
I don’t think Kate invited him, but at this point I’m beyond caring. Maybe I’ll add a new element to my plan for the night: drink until I stop thinking about Lara. But my chances of ridding her from my mind are slim. She’s all I can think about.
“Good to see you,” I force myself to say. “Glad you could make it.”
“How you been?” Jacob asks, taking a drink of his whiskey soda.
I force a laugh. “Been better.”
He winces. “Yeah, I heard. Rough break, man.”
“Hey, the SEC’s got to pay its employees’ bills somehow, right?”
“Sure, sure.” Jacob’s barely looking at me, far more into the ass of the redhead behind me. “You think they got anything on you?”
“There’s nothing to find.” My voice has just the slightest edge, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
“Good for you,” he says absentmindedly as a server walks by with a plate of crab cakes. His attention’s back on me, and he leans forward slightly. “Heard you’ve got Vanessa Lewis reppin’ you. You must talk a damn good game if you’ve got her fooled.”
Before I can reply to this jackass with something that’s absolutely not cocktail-party appropriate, Kate appears by my side.
“Hey, Ian! Can I borrow you for a second?”
I glance down at her, seeing that her smile is wide and bright but there’s a nervousness to it. At first, I think it’s because she’s overheard my conversation with Jacob and thinks I’m going to cause a scene, but a moment later, I realize she’s nervous about something else entirely.
“You didn’t,” I say through clenched teeth at my assistant.
“Don’t get mad.” Kate sets a hand on my arm and pins me with a look. “Whatever this thing is, Ian, you need to deal with it.”
Kate’s right, as she usually is, but I barely hear her.
Because my brain—and my heart—can’t quite figure out what to do with the fact that Lara McKenzie is standing in my living room.
22
LARA
Week 4: Thursday Night
When I dressed this morning, I confess I thought I was looking pretty good. The sleeveless blue turtleneck matches my eyes, the gray pencil skirt does a decent job of disguising the past few weeks’ stress eating. The nude pumps are both classic and sexy.
So I thought.
Walking into Ian’s apartment, I feel like an utter frump.
Who are these people who look better at six o’clock on a Thursday than I do after primping for a black-tie wedding?
The men in expensive suits, I can get. I’m used to that. It’s the women who throw me a bit. The strappy high-heel sandals, the short cocktail dresses, the flawless makeup.
It’s a good reminder that this is Ian Bradley’s world—glamorous, expensive, and elite. A world to which I don’t and will never belong.
That’s never bothered me before. I’m not sure it bothers me now. I like who I am. I like that I own more pantsuits than cocktail dresses, that I work hard in a profession I believe in.
I’m okay not fitting in here. What I’m less okay with is what that means for Ian and me.
“Lara, hi. I wasn’t sure you’d actually come,” Kate says as I’m ordering a drink at the makeshift bar.
“I wasn’t sure, either. I nearly chickened out,” I admit, turning to face her. I quickly scan the room, but it’s packed wall-to-wall, and I don’t see Ian. “Is he here?”
She gives a slight smile. “It’s his apartment. I should hope so.”
“Okay, I’ll rephrase. Does he know I’m here?”
She looks away and doesn’t answer, the first time I’ve seen Kate anything less than forthright.
My heart sinks. “Maybe this wasn’t a good idea.”
“No. You stay,” she says determinedly. “There are only so many places he can hide.”
“Do you think anyone will know who I am?”
“Probably,” she says. “Or they’ll at least know what you are. They’re all in Prada heels, and you look like a government worker.”
“Um, ouch,” I mutter, even though I know she’s right.
“Just remember why you’re here.” Then she gives me a curious look. “Why are you here? You never said why you wanted to come.”
I give her a steady look. “No, I didn’t.”
“A hint?”
“Kate,” I say mildly. “If I wanted to go through a messenger, I would have done so already.”
She sighs. “Fine. Can’t blame a girl for trying. Okay, so look. He’s a little pissed at me for telling you about the party, and he’s a little pissed at you for . . . well, I don’t know what. We need to figure out a way to get you two alone.” She nibbles her lip. “I’m just not sure how. He’s not as easy to handle as he was before.”
“Before what?” I ask, taking a large sip of my wine.
Kate pats my arm. “Before you.”
My head snaps up as I stare at her, my heart thumping. “Before me. What does that mean?”
Kate merely smiles enigmatically and scans the room, then points toward the sliding glass doors on the far side of the living room that lead to a balcony. “Go wait out there, just until I can be sure he won’t cause a scene.”
I laugh. “I’m being sent outside? Like a dog that destroyed a pillow?”
“Yes, but I’m getting you a refill first,” she says, pulling my wineglass out of my hand and holding it up for the bartender. Then she thrusts it back at me and points. “Ten minutes. Max.”
I do as I’m told, mostly because the thought of standing out on the balcony sounds vastly preferable to making small talk in here. Nobody is paying me any attention—yet. But that’ll all change the second I get the so, what do you do? query and word spreads like wildfire that they have the enemy in their midst.
“Truffle arancini?” A slim woman in a black-and-white server’s uniform presents a tray in front of my face.
“No, thanks,” I say with a smile.
She pivots and presents the tray in her other hand. “Lobster toast?”
Damn. So this is how the other side parties.
“No, thank you. I’m good.”
She moves on with her lavish snacks, and I step out onto the balcony. On my walk over here, it was sunny, but it’s started to cloud over thanks to an approaching summer thunderstorm, so I’ve got the whole area to myself. Not that it’s particularly large. It’s not a grill on the deck and sip beer kind of space. But it’s nice.
Who am I kidding, it’s more than nice. The guy lives on the fifty-sixth floor of a fancy high-rise with a view of the Freedom Tower.
I take a sip of my wine and try to enjoy the view without thinking about how much it stings that Ian didn’t so much as come over to say hello. Just a few nights ago he was kissing me. Now he won’t even look at me, won’t answer my calls, won’t agree to a meeting.
Still, I get it. He needed something I couldn’t give. Not then, not until I’d seen the case all the way through.
But I can now. It’s why I’m here.
“May I join you?”
I turn and do a double take when I recognize the woman stepping out onto the balcony. She’s the one I saw Ian with at lunch a few weeks ago, and she’s even more gorgeous up close. She’s got long, thick black hair that falls almost to her waist, piercing blue eyes, an angular but striking face, and if I’m going to be perfectly honest here . . . rather spectacular boobs.
“Sure,” I say, resisting the urge to pull my hair out of my ponytail so I feel slightly less juvenile.
She gives a cool smile and extends a hand. “Sabrina Cross.”
“Lara McKenzie.”
Her smile cools e
ven further. “I know.”
I take a sip of wine, wondering what the heck that means. What does she know? Did Ian tell her about the kiss? “So, you also know . . .” I say it casually, fishing.
“That you’re the SEC investigator looking into Ian? Yep.” She tilts her head and studies me. “But you’re not what I expected.”
“You’ve already seen me. In the restaurant at lunch that day.”
“True,” she admits, taking a sip of her champagne. “But then I was more interested in Ian’s reaction to you than I was you.”
There’s bait there, but I don’t take it, much as I want to.
“I always picture SEC employees in boxy brown suits and clogs.”
“Well, all my boxy suits were dirty, and the clogs hurt my bunions.”
She laughs, and it’s as low and sultry as I’d guessed when I’d seen her laugh at the restaurant with Ian. “I see why he likes you.”
“Yes, men just love my combination of forthright and awkward.”
“Men like the combination of witty and smart,” she corrects.
“Assuming there was a compliment in there, thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” She takes a sip of her drink and watches me for a moment. “Why are you here?”
I lift my eyebrows at the blunt question, but she merely shrugs. “I’m very protective of Ian.”
“Ian told me you two are close.”
“Did he?” Sabrina says thoughtfully. “Interesting. He doesn’t often discuss our friendship. With anyone. But yes, we’re close. As close as possible to siblings without sharing parents.”
Siblings. I can’t deny that her word choice gives me a fierce stab of relief that the relationship’s as platonic as he’d claimed.
“Are you close with Matt and Kennedy as well?” I ask, both curious and determined not to look too interested in Ian specifically.
“Sure. Kennedy’s a good guy. A little uptight but as loyal as they come. As for Matt . . .” She practically sneers his name. “We have . . . history.”
“He’s an ex?”
“Eh. More like . . .” She waves her champagne around, searching for the word. “A past fling. It ended badly, and I wish regular suffering upon him, and he me.”