She obviously reads the questions in my silence, straightening in her chair, her attempts to show her breasts forgotten. “I’m good at my job. I’m one of the best in my field, an expert in—”

“I know your credentials.” My gaze flicks to the door, to the gray haired, slender man in a white button-down and khakis. “Your boss is here,” I say, leveling her with a stare. “Was there something you needed that I haven’t addressed?”

“Nothing we can cover with an audience.” She stands, and turns to greet William, who visibly jolts with her presence. “Hello, William.”

He looks at me. “I didn’t realize Lana was attending this meeting.”

“I’m not,” Lana says quickly. “If you remember, Mr. Brandon and I went to college together and I came for coffee and he was here and … I’m going back to work.” She steps around him and walks toward the counter.

Already focused on William, I motion for him to sit. “Thanks for coming.”

“It sounded urgent,” he says, joining me.

“I’m not going to mince words. It is.” He slips his hands under the table, a classic way to hide a tremble. “I didn’t bring you here to talk about acquisitions,” I continue. “I have a problem.”

He swallows hard. “What kind of problem?”

“The board of directors is not pleased with our profit margins.”

“That’s crazy,” he says, his hands finding their way to the table. “Our margins are exceptional.”

“They aren’t at the level you and I discussed.”

“We set a one-year goal,” he argues. “We’re only halfway there and on pace to be right on target.”

“That might be true, but I need something to excite the board, teasers that show we can be more and do more.”

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” I glance up at the sound of a male voice to find a man in a dark suit with graying hair standing by our table. “Actually,” he adds, grabbing a chair to the end of our table and sitting down, “I really don’t care if I’m interrupting.”

“Who the fuck are you?” I demand.

“Richard Jones is the name.” He reaches in his pocket, flashes a badge, and starts to put it in his pocket. “FBI.”

As soon as he hears “FBI,” William jerks his hands off the table, hiding them again, while turning fifty shades of green, proving my assessment of how soft he is to be true.

I tap the table. “I’ll take a look at that badge.”

The agent smirks but slides it across the table for my inspection. I give it a longer look than is necessary before sliding it back to him. “What can we do for you, Agent Jones?”

“I have questions,” he says. “And what better time to ask them than when you’re with your head of research and development.”

“You know who I am?” William asks, and then looks at me. “How does he know who I am?”

“It’s my job to know, Mr. Nichols,” Agent Jones answers.

“What can I do for you, Agent Jones?” I repeat.

His head snaps in my direction. “I’ll be direct,” he says. “I’m investigating a member of the FDA staff with some rather suspect drug approvals. In short, we believe he’s been taking cash payouts to improperly approve sometimes quite dangerous drugs.”

“‘Direct’ means explaining what this has to do with us,” I say. “Not throwing out the information in hope that we squirm.”

“You recently had a drug approved by this FDA representative,” Jones explains, his attention cutting sharply to William. “I assume in your role, you’d be the person deciding it was ready for submission?”

William pales. “I … I don’t know what drug you’re talking about. I submit many drugs for approval.”

“An asthma drug,” Agent Jones says. “The name escapes me, but then, I’m not a world-class scientist like you, William.”

“Tenza,” I supply the name of the drug connected to my brother’s FDA bribe. “It’s called Tenza.” I glance at William. “Did we get the official approval?”

“Just yesterday,” he replies. “I planned to document it in next week’s reports.”

“This approval must have been a shock,” Agent Jones interjects. “I mean, from what I read in the reports, even to me, a complete nonacademic, especially when it comes to the complexity of drug manufacturing, it’s not market ready. Surely a man with your experience, Mr. Nichols, knew that. Unless…” He looks at me. “Management told him to submit it, and you’d take care of the approval?”

“I don’t think I like where you’re going with this, Agent Jones,” I say, my voice low, hard.

“The FBI is far less concerned with what you think, than what you’re doing,” Jones replies dryly. “And if this is going where I think it is, it’s a good thing you’re an attorney. You might be needing those skills.” He stands and sets the chair back at the table behind him before giving me a mock salute. “I’ll be in touch.” He walks away and I watch his every step until he disappears, only then turning my attention back to William, who has turned yet a deeper shade of green.

“Is there something you need to tell me?” I demand.

“What? No. Of course not.”