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 freelance 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.
Here’s an example:
Last week, Gabby went home with a broker who had a Steinway concert grand piano in the living room of his penthouse. When Gabby asked if he played, he said he’s never even touched the keys. His decorator had recommended the piano to him as a “statement piece.”
Sorry, but can we pause on that for a second?
There are people in my own city whose “statement pieces” cost more than double my annual income.
I get that it’s reverse snobbery, but come on.
Anyway.
I don’t officially kick off my investigation until later this week, but statistically speaking, Ian’s probably every bit as guilty of insider trading as our source claims. He’s one of the biggest names at one of the biggest firms. That means the most money. The most money means the most to lose . . . and the most to win. Which means the most temptation to cheat.
Ian’s also exactly what I’d expected. The guy’s pic on the company website is pretty much the stock photo equivalent of a Wall Street broker—expensive haircut, expensive teeth, expensive suit, expensive tan.
In person, he was even more . . .
Well, he was just . . . too much. Too tall. Too charming. Too masculine.
Also . . . gorgeous. Really, ridiculously, hurts your eyes gorgeous.
But he knows it.
Even if I hadn’t been investigating the guy, I’d have dodged his come-ons. Guys like that just aren’t for me. I don’t have the patience for their flash and dazzle and strutting, and they don’t have time for my rules and structure.
So is Ian Bradley hot? Yes. Very. But I don’t need hot. I’d settle for someone a little plain, even a little boring, just so long as he’s loyal. Someone who won’t mind when I geek out over a new case at work or spend my Saturdays updating my Quantico application.
Professional life first, personal after. It’s a little pact I’ve made with myself since acknowledging that apparently I’m incapable of juggling both.
I’m just starting toward the subway when I hear a masculine voice calling my name.
I turn to see Ian strolling out of Wolfe Investments’ revolving doors and heading right toward me. I press my lips together, not loving the jolt of surprise that has me freezing instead of continuing on my way.
I don’t like surprises.
Usually the people I’m investigating avoid me at all costs. The fact that he’s breaking the rules already does not bode well for the investigation proceeding predictably.
And I do like predictability.
Still, the job is the job, so I paste a professional smile on my face, even as I feel a strange flicker of awareness as he comes closer. The Ian Bradley in the office had been all quippy one-liners, superficial charm, and playboy confidence. This Ian, though . . . let’s just say I can understand why Ian Bradley and his crew at Wolfe Investments are nicknamed the Wolfes of Wall Street—they’re wicked hot, insanely rich, and known for getting exactly what they want, consequences be damned.
Ian slides on sunglasses, hiding eyes that I know are piercingly blue. He stops in front of me, a hair closer than he needs to be, but I refuse to step back.
God, he smells good. Manly and expensive. How annoying.
“Hello again,” I say, giving him my most generic “SEC smile.”
He doesn’t smile back, and even with his sunglasses on, I’m more certain than ever that I’m dealing with a very different version of Ian Bradley from the one I met ten minutes ago. A more dangerous version.
“Was it good for you?” he asks in a low voice.
My smile drops. “Excuse me?”
“Your little game back there.” He tilts his head toward the office. “You have fun?”
“Actually, yes,” I say, lifting my chin defiantly.
He steps closer, and I can feel the anger radiating off him. “Where the hell do you get off? Coming into my office, flirting—”
“Flirting?” I interrupt, furious. “I was just trying to get a stupid cup of coffee. You’re the one who was acting like freaking Don Juan.”
“I’m not going to apologize for asking an attractive woman to drinks,” he snaps.
I snort. “Save the flattery for someone who’s interested.”
He shakes his head. “You’ve got a sad-ass love life if you think that was flattery, Ms. McKenzie.”
His barb hits a little too close to home, but I swipe away the sting and step closer. “Let’s get one thing straight, Mr. Bradley, for both our sakes. You think you’re the first Wall Street suit who thinks I’ll be so dazzled by broad shoulders and a well-played line that I’ll lose my little female head and overlook any wrongdoing? You think you’re the first one to think this is a game to be won by slimy seduction?”
His mouth drops open. “What the—? Slimy seduction, my ass!”
I ignore his protest and continue with my tirade. “Being a woman in today’s world is no easy task, and being a woman in the SEC is that much harder. But here’s the part I want you to listen to very closely, Mr. Bradley. I love working for an agency that seeks justice. I love the fact that when it comes to the world of trades and stock and money, nobody’s above the law. Not freaking Martha Stewart and most definitely not you.”
He takes a small step back and crosses his arms. “Guilty until proven innocent, is that how this works?” I can’t see his eyes through the dark shades, but I feel the heat of his glare.
I open my mouth to retort, but his comment slices into my conscience like a very thin paper cut. He’s maybe a tiny bit right. In my experience, rumors of insider trading are almost always true, but that doesn’t mean I can assume.
“My job is to find out the truth,” I say through gritted teeth.
“And what if the truth isn’t what you want to hear?”
“Meaning?”
He leans toward me, and I can see the faintest bit of dark stubble against the decidedly stubborn set of his jawline.
Damn it, he really does smell good. What is that, sandalwood? Cedar? George Clooney’s sweat?
“Meaning, I think you want me to be guilty,” he says in a low rumble.
“Why would I want that?”
“You’ve got a hero complex,” he continues. “You’re determined to save the world, even if you have to invent your own villains.”
I scoff. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?”
Is it?
I’ve known this guy for all of three minutes, and somehow, he’s made me doubt myself twice. The feeling is unfamiliar and highly annoying.
Much like the man in front of me.
I give him a cool, dismissive smile. “Ah. I see. Asking me to drinks didn’t work, so now you’re trying to twist this around. Get in my head.”
To my surprise, he grins, all traces of his former intensity vanished. “Is it working?”
“Getting in my head? Nope.”
“What about the seduction?”
I spread my arms to the side, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. “Again, no signs of imminent swooning. Suspected criminals aren’t my type.”
I expect him to growl at me, but his smile merely widens, though there’s a sharpness to it. “Then I look forward to the day you have to look me in the eyes and tell me I’m innocent.”
“If you’re innocent, I will surely do that,” I say.
“But you don’t think I am.”
“I told you, it’s my job to find out.”
“Great. So when this thing goes my way, maybe you can buy me a drink.”
“Oh, absolutely,” I say, making no effort to hide my sarcasm.
He rubs his jaw and studies me, then he shakes his head and turns away. “See you around, Ms. McKenzie.”
I’ll deny it to my dying day, even to myself, but I’m disappointed that he doesn’t turn and glance my way, because I can’t seem to remove my eyes from his retreating back.
A back that’s too broad, too muscular, too . . .
Gah!
I pivot on my heel and march away, more in need of that champagne than ever.
A drink with Ian Bradley, indeed. Can you imagine?
Even if he’s not guilty, it won’t happen.
And if he is . . .
Let’s just say I’m totally not visiting him in prison, even though I know he would look really good in an orange jumpsuit.