"There's one other thing," Rob added after another minute of silence.
I looked up at him from my position in his armpit. "What's that?"
"You made a crack at me before about being a rich kid, buying my grandma the house up here," he said.
"Yeah, I'm sorry - I didn't mean-"
He shook his head. "The truth is that no, I didn't buy it. She's had it for a long time, but recently went through some money issues, and needed to refinance."
"So?"
"So I helped her get the loan on the property." He sighed. "And I secured the loan for the house through Cartmann Securities."
"Oh." I frowned. "Is that legal?"
Rob winced. "Legal, yes. A good idea, not at all. Essentially, my company - heck, my boss - owns the loan on the house, and they can call it in at any time, which would drive my grandmother out. They haven't done it, but I haven't forgotten about it - and I'm sure that they haven't, either."
He lapsed back into silence, and I fell quiet alongside him as I considered the implications of his company having this weight hanging over Rob's head.
Chapter Nine
*
The two of us, Rob and I, sat on the beach in silence for a few minutes as I turned over this new information. Suddenly, this black-and-white story wasn't looking nearly as clear cut.
When I'd come up here, I'd been ready to tell the story of a man who, although he might be sexy and have a couple redeeming features, was still clearly the villain. Rob was the rich kid that everyone wanted to hate, the guy who had enjoyed so much success, good fortune just falling into his lap, that he became the natural target for most of our magazine's readers. Now that he'd finally been caught in a scam, he was going to receive his just comeuppance.
But now, after listening to Rob tell his side of the story, I suddenly saw a different tale taking shape. Rob was the guy who'd worked hard, had tried to help out his family, who had been driven by a strong sense of right and wrong. When he realized that there was something suspicious happening at his company, he started to investigate, trying to uncover the truth - and they'd burned him for attempting to do the right thing.
Was Rob telling the truth? Could I believe him? Was he just a bad boy trying to sneak out of being painted in a bad light, or did he really believe that he was doing the right thing, and there was a bigger scheme hidden in the shadows?
Part of me still didn't want to trust him. But all the evidence that he'd showed me so far pointed to him being innocent - and besides, I certainly wasn't the most powerful person in his life, or in the media. Why would he go to such lengths to deceive me if he wasn't telling the truth? Aside from one damning magazine article, I just didn't hold any actual power over him. Not enough to make him bother lying to me.
In my head, I scrapped the few notes that I'd taken down mentally for my article so far. Instead, a new story began to take shape.
A man who wanted to do the right thing, a whistle-blower, being persecuted by his scummy Wall Street brokerage as they tried to keep him from finding out the truth. Yeah, that story would sell. That was the kind of story that got picked up by hundreds of news outlets, that could win someone a Pulitzer.
But it was also the kind of story that could make powerful enemies for a nobody reporter like myself. I shivered again, leaning in against Rob.
"We can go back," he offered, his arm tightening against me. "There are other little details, but that's the main gist of why I'm out here. We don't need to stay out here and freeze for any longer."
I turned a little towards him, shaking my head. "No, we can stay a little longer," I replied, looking up at the lines of his face in the darkness. Even with the shadows hiding much of the detail of his face, Rob still looked attractive. And honestly, I really didn't mind sitting with him, purely for selfish reasons. It had been far too long since I'd gotten this close to a handsome man, even if he didn't have the slightest interest in me romantically.
Although his arm, still wrapped around me, was rather close to my butt. Probably just a coincidence.
"Listen, April," Rob spoke up after another minute. "I know that this might not have been the story that you wanted to find." He paused for a moment, and then continued. I could feel the touch of his breath against my ear as he spoke, his head close to mine. "If you want to take off and go back, give up on this, I understand."
And that sentence broke me.
Maybe I had misjudged Rob by marking him down as an asshole. Now, when I looked at him, I saw a man who wanted to do the right thing, but didn't want to drag in anyone else. He wanted to offer me a chance to get out, even if it meant that he'd be losing a potential ally, that he wouldn't have a way to get his story out to the world.
So I looked back at him and shook my head, slowly but with confidence.
"Nope. I'm staying - and I'm going to help you," I told him, looking up into his eyes as we huddled together for warmth on the cool sand of the beach. I made the decision right then and there, but I knew in my heart that I had made the right choice.
For a moment, Rob frowned, looking as if he might second-guess me, ask me if I was sure. But he didn't say those words, didn't ask me for an explanation as to why I changed my mind.
I honestly wasn't sure if I could have given him one.
"We've got a lot of work to do, then," he said, still not moving to stand up from his seat on the sand.
"We can start tomorrow," I decided. "After all, now that you've got me helping you, it will surely go twice as fast, right?"
"Do you have any idea what you're looking for?"
I reluctantly admitted that no, I didn't, and Rob sighed again. Still, he didn't make any other comment or turn down my offer of help.
"What's your story, then?" he asked, after another long stretch of silence.
I started to again say how I needed to write this story, but he gave me a squeeze to cut me off after the first sentence. That squeeze reminded me of just how close his hand was to my butt. Just a few more inches...
"Not that. Broader picture. What brought you into the city in the first place? How did you, April Carpenter, end up here?"
I tried not to think about how nice my name sounded when it emerged from between his lips. Between his warm arm around me and the chill of the night air, I felt comfortable, almost sleepy, a bit like sitting around a crackling campfire and huddling in closer for warmth. I thought about my story, how I ended up sitting next to a disgraced former Wall Street trader on a beach in the Hamptons.
"I've sort of just drifted, honestly," I admitted. "I grew up in upstate, but headed down to the city during the day on weekends, just wandering around and exploring. My parents gave me pretty free rein, and I've always just sort of done whatever job was easiest, right in front of me at the time." I sniffed. "And that probably explains why I'm nearly into my thirties and I still don't even have a savings account."
"And the job that happened to be right in front of you was writing for a magazine?"
"Well, I went to college for journalism, because I wanted to go all around the world and write stories while sitting out on beaches and fancy cafes," I confessed, and Rob laughed. "But it turns out that most writing jobs aren't offered by travel guides, and the ones that are offered by travel guides tend to be more 'report if the war in central Africa has died down yet' instead of 'visit this nice cafe in Greece'. So there I was, fresh new journalism degree, plenty of student debt, and this spot at Grit was the only thing offering me money."
"So you took it," Rob filled in.
I nodded. "Yup. I told myself that it was just going to sort of be a stepping stone to bigger things, that I wouldn't be staying there for more than a year at the most. I'd write a couple articles, get my feet under me, and then I'd find a real job, writing real stuff."
"Real stuff isn't writing about sex positions and which Cosmo tips are physically impossible?" Rob joked, although I saw him smile as he said it.
"I wish it was," I said, rolling my eyes, but bumping
my head in against his shoulder. "Heck, I think that it's really valuable stuff to know! If only others shared that opinion, I could maybe make enough to have cash left over after I've paid my bills for the month."
"So what sort of stories do you really want to write?"
I shrugged. "I don't really know, still. Is that as awful as it sounds? I've been doing this for more than five years, and I still don't know what I really want to write? I always tell people that I want to get into real stories, the hard-hitting stuff that can win people Pulitzers and fancy awards, but I just can't ever summon up any enthusiasm for it. So I'm stuck with fluff pieces, instead."
"Hard hitting pieces? You mean, like helping a former Wall Street trader uncover a conspiracy at his former company?" Rob asked, and I laughed as I poked him in the stomach with an elbow.
The move probably hurt my elbow more than it hurt Rob; good god, did the man have abs made of steel? Still, he winced and rolled away from me for a moment. I reached out and grabbed him back, not wanting to lose my heat source. "Yes, something like this! That's part of the reason why I'm sticking around. This could be my shot at the big time."
"So I'm just a meal ticket?"
I frowned at that barb. "No - I mean, it started that way."
"Ouch."
"But now, I think there's more to it," I went on, the words pouring out of me. "I think that this is a story that could really right a wrong, and it needs to be told. So I'm staying, no matter what you say."
"I'll try to keep it interesting for you," he whispered back to me as I leaned back in, landing partially on top of him as he fell back in the sand, and suddenly, I realized that we were right on top of each other, looking into each other's eyes.
If this was a movie, this would be the part where the hero and heroine share their first kiss.
Of course, if this was a movie, I wouldn't be so damn cold, and I'd probably be wearing size four jeans. I also wouldn't have little grains of sand inside of those jeans, working themselves into all sorts of uncomfortable spots with every movement I made.
So instead of kissing, Rob and I just gazed into each other's eyes for a single, timeless, paralyzing moment before his hands gently eased me back up. I blinked and broke the gaze between us, and the moment passed as quickly as it had arrived.
"We should probably head back to the house," Rob said as we climbed up to our feet. He didn't look up at me as he spoke, and I frowned at him. Did his voice sound husky? Had he also been thinking about what it would be like if he kissed me?
Yes, I said 'also'. In that moment, I'd totally been picturing kissing the Bad Boy of Wall Street.
Had he been imagining kissing April Carpenter, the cute and spunky reporter digging for the real story on his life?
I grimaced to myself as I stood up. Spunky? I'd have to change that word when I wrote up this story. Spunky made me sound like I was a teen girl, exploring a mystery like Nancy Drew. I'd need to find a different descriptor.
Not that I'd be writing this part up at all, I interjected in my own thoughts a second later. Any rogue thoughts of a potential relationship with my story's subject would stay firmly in the margins, not going into the article!
Rob offered me his arm to walk me back to the house, and I accepted the offer. We headed up through the dunes, my legs feeling chilled and wooden as I plodded along. What I really needed when we got back, I decided, was a long, hot shower - or maybe even a bath, if there was a tub in the house. Something with steaming hot water, to get the feeling back into my toes.
And then, I went on, I needed to go to bed, and not think any more dangerous thoughts about any potential attraction that I felt towards Rob Hendricks.
Chapter Ten
*
By the time that Hook found the right office in downtown Manhattan, he was already feeling steamed, his normally short temper frayed even worse than usual. He stomped into the office and shot a murderous glare at the receptionist that was vicious enough to make her jaw snap shut halfway through her greeting.
Why the hell couldn't these places put up some damn signs? he grumbled to himself. It wasn't like they didn't have enough money - all the buildings around here were skyscrapers, made of glass and steel and with stupidly modern, minimalistic lobbies. They practically oozed money and new wealth. Couldn't they have spared a couple hundred bucks to get a goddamn sign for their front door?
After stomping in and out of half a dozen office buildings on the block where Cartmann Securities was supposed to be located, Hook finally found a small, black plaque with raised steel letters in the back of the lobby. The plaque proclaimed that Cartmann Securities was located up on the thirtieth floor. There, was that so damn hard? Couldn't they have stuck the sign out on the front of the building?
Emerging on the thirtieth floor, Hook crossed the lobby towards the receptionist that he'd silenced with his angry glare. There were a handful of low-slung chairs that looked like modern art pieces scattered around, but he ignored them. Waiting was for other people.
"Um, can I help you?" the receptionist managed, when Hook rapped his knuckles on top of her desk.
"Yeah, I hope so." Hook realized that he was still glaring, and he forced himself to put on a smile. There, that would win her over. "I'm here looking for the head asshole, whoever that might be. Mind telling me where I can find him?"
The receptionist hadn't been trained to handle this. She'd spent most of college shutting down the advances of drunk, oversexed and overly masculine fraternity boys. Stockbrokers, she'd soon discovered, weren't much different, except that they wore more expensive suits.
This man in front of her now, however, was definitely not a stockbroker.
She'd developed a good eye for suits in her short time at Cartmann Securities, and the cheap fabric wrapped around this man's bulky, muscled body looked like it had come from the bargain bin at an outlet store. The man's big, broad features, along with a crooked and slightly flattened nose, made him look more like a bare-knuckle boxer than anyone who dealt with vast amounts of other people's money.
Something about his crooked grin didn't quite reach his flat, gray eyes, she thought to herself. This was a man who was legitimately dangerous, and shouldn't be given the runaround.
So instead of giving the usual cutting response that put most stockbrokers or uppity clients in their place, she nodded, trying not to swallow in fear. "Er, would that be Mr. Cartmann?" she asked, making one last attempt to remain professional.
"I suppose so," Hook replied with a shrug. "If he's got his name on the place, he's probably the head asshole. Does he have any idea what shit is going on at this place?"
The receptionist wasn't sure how to answer that question. For a moment, she considered telling this newcomer that Mr. Cartmann wasn't in at the moment, but she suspected, rightly, that this sentence wouldn't be well received. Something in the way that the cheap fabric of the suit jacket bulged up around his biceps told her that this man wasn't afraid of using his brute strength to get what he wanted. He reminded the receptionist a little of her former modeling manager, and she shivered at the memory.
"Mr. Cartmann's office is down at the end of the hall," she told Hook. "I can buzz him if you'd like, tell him who's here to meet with him-"
"Nah, don't bother," Hook interrupted her. He gave her what he intended to be a reassuring smile, although it came out as more of a leer. "I'll let it be a surprise, whaddaya say?"
"Of course," agreed the receptionist, who would have said yes to practically anything by that point, just to get rid of him.
Hook breezed past her desk, searching for Cartmann's office, and the receptionist breathed a sigh of relief - and then reached under her desk for her purse. She could tell when something bad was about to happen, and she strongly suspected that she didn't want to be in the area as a potential witness to whatever came next.
Hook didn't have any trouble locating Cartmann's office, at least. One of the offices at the end of the hall was twice as big as all of the others
, and Cartmann had a nameplate mounted next to the door. No understated little black metal plaque here - the nameplate was bright gold, and something about the way the metal glinted suggested to Hook that it wasn't just plated. If he wrenched the thing off the wall, it could probably pay for a new car, something quite a bit nicer than his unremarkable rental.
Without bothering to knock, Hook barged into the office.
Chad Cartmann, head of Cartmann Securities, looked up past his feet, propped up on his desk in leather wingtip shoes, as some idiot came in without knocking. What the hell was going on? Wasn't his secretary supposed to keep out idiots like this?
"Who the fuck are you?" he snapped out, glaring back at Hook.
Hook smiled. This idiot, in a fancy suit with leather shoes, sitting behind his big desk, had the right attitude. Brash and blustery, certain that he was the most important person in any room he entered. This was the kind of man who would probably have the answers that Hook's bosses sent him here to get.
"You the head of this shithole?" he asked, grinning as he stepped into the office.
Cartmann had been on the phone, hoping to get some dirt on a biotech company that was about to receive results on its Phase Three trials, but he reached out and hung up the call without saying goodbye. The idiots over at the FDA weren't going to reveal anything to him, it seemed, so that fishing expedition had been in vain. He now focused all of his annoyance at being interrupted on this bozo in front of him.
"Yeah, I'm the head of this place, shitbird," he snapped back, pulling his shoes down off of his desk and rising up to his feet. "And who the fuck are you?"
At least, Cartmann meant to rise up to his feet. He didn't make it more than a couple of inches up from his seat, however, before Hook's thick arm reached across the desk to push him back down heavily into the chair.
"I'm the guy sent by the guys whose money you lost," Hook answered. He frowned for a moment, replaying this sentence in his head, but it seemed to make sense, so he stuck with it. "And Chad? Buddy? They're not happy."
Bad Boy of Wall Street: A Bad Boy Billionaire Romance Page 6