14
LARA
Week 3: Friday Morning
I’m going half-blind reading boring-ass e-mails when an enormous Frappuccino appears in front of my nose.
I have to look from the frothy Starbucks drink to the person delivering it twice before I register that she’s brought it for me.
Kate drops into the chair on the opposite side of the conference room table, taking a sip of her own drink. “It’s a peace offering, Ms. McKenzie.”
“That or diabetes in a plastic cup,” I say, picking it up and pointing at the mound of whipped cream. “Are those chocolate shavings?”
“They are indeed. And don’t pretend you don’t want it. Ian let the cat out of the bag.”
My head snaps up, not entirely sure I want to know what Ian told his assistant. On the one hand, I hope it’s nothing so I can maintain some semblance of professionalism. On the other hand, I want to know if he’s as off-balance after our dinner last week as I am.
“About the coffee?” Kate prompts, giving me a curious look. “He said he brought you one a few weeks ago?”
“Oh. Right. Right.”
I take a sip of the drink to try and cover up my awkwardness. It’s even more amazing this time around. Cold and sweet and caffeinated.
“Do you think this is what heaven tastes like?” I ask, more to myself than her.
Kate considers my question seriously. “That or cheese fries. Or that place in the Village that makes ice cream out of cookie dough.”
“Or a really good croissant. The kind that are buttery, flaky on the outside and then chewy on the inside.”
She points her straw in my direction. “Yes. Like they have in Paris.”
I feel a little twinge of longing. “I’ve never been, but yeah . . . I can imagine.”
She shrugs. “New York does a pretty good version, too. But if you love croissants, you need to go to Paris.”
I take another sip of my drink. “Someday.” After I get into the FBI and work my butt off to move up the food chain to earn vacation time and enough money for said vacation . . .
Kate takes a long sip from the straw, cheeks sucking in as she watches me. “No Paris for you, huh? Is it time or money you’re short on?”
I let out a little laugh at her bluntness. “Both. And you certainly don’t mince words.”
“Not so much, no. Five years of babysitting my boys”—she gestures out toward the office—“has evaporated any ounce of tact I once had, which wasn’t much.”
“They send you in here?”
She sets her cup on the table, rolls it back and forth between her hands. “It may have been suggested that you might be more likely to lower your guard around a female.”
“Mmm, right. Because all we girls secretly want to do is consume chocolate and gossip about boys.”
She laughs. “That’s exactly what I told Kennedy, that he insulted us both by the suggestion. But since he paid for these drinks at six bucks a pop, I told him I’d get the scoop.”
“Which I won’t be telling you,” I say, smiling to soften it.
“No, I know. But I’m going to sit here for a second anyway.” She leans back in her chair. “I just . . .” She breathes out. “You ever just need a break? Like you maybe get the sense you live for your job, only to wake up and realize you’re barely living?”
Not until recently. Not until Ian.
The thought is so foreign, so out there, I blink in surprise. Surely I haven’t let a guy I’ve known less than three weeks get under my skin.
“You don’t like your job?” I ask, to avoid saying something I shouldn’t.
“No, I love it. I can’t think of anything I’d rather do more. It’s just”—she stabs the straw at the frozen liquid—“lonely, I guess.”
“No boyfriend? Girlfriend?” I ask, not wanting to assume.
“Nope.” She says it in a clipped little voice that tells me there’s more to the story.
“Anyone you’re interested in?” I ask. I keep the question casual, even though I’ve already got a good idea of who’s holding a piece of Kate Henley’s heart. The question is whether she even knows.
Her eyes shadow for a second. Oh yeah, she knows. But instead of answering my question, she shifts her gaze to me. “What about you? Involved with anyone?”
“Nope.” I wrap my lips around my straw.
She studies me. “Ian’s a good guy, you know.”
I choke a little on the Frappuccino. “What does Mr. Bradley have to do with my love life?”
“Nothing,” she says, eyes wide and innocent.
I feel a moment of panic at my mistake, then I see her slight smirk. Busted.
“You like him,” she says with a teasing grin as she chews her straw. “Rumor has it you and Ian had a ‘meeting’ last Friday after hours.” She adds air quotes around meeting for emphasis.
“We discussed his case, yes,” I say, the professional in me warring rather obnoxiously with the newly discovered part of me that wants nothing more than to pick Kate’s brain on everything there is to know about Ian . . . and not for reasons that have anything to do with the case.
Kate rolls her eyes. “Riiiiight. I’ll pretend not to notice that you’re blushing right now, and that every time you’re standing at my desk, you look at Ian’s office to see if he’s in.”
Oh, so that’s how it’s going to be.
“Perfect,” I retort. “And I’ll pretend not to notice the way you look at Kennedy Dawson when he’s not looking.”
Her eyes narrow at me. “Careful there, SEC.”
I lift my cup in a truce. “No more boy talk?”
She taps her cup against mine. “Not until the case is over. Then I want details.”
“Once the case is over, you might hate my guts,” I say regretfully.
“Nah. I already know how this all ends, and I’ve got a pretty good feeling we’re going to be friends.”
“Even if I send one of your bosses to jail?”
I expect her to get pissed or upset, but she just shakes her head. “Look, I’ve known Ian a lot longer than you have. Ian’s good.”
“Heart of gold and all that?” I say with a smile.
“Yes,” Kate says, her tone dead serious. “Did you know he sets up college scholarships for high school foster kids? Or that he rents out entire theme parks for the younger ones once a year?”
I sit back, a little stunned. “I didn’t.”
“He paid for my master’s in business administration. Even Matt and Kennedy don’t know about that.” She blows out a breath. “I’m worried that you’ve only researched the version of Ian you want to see—the one who’s bought a car he doesn’t need, whose black book’s thicker than the Bible.”
I keep myself from outwardly flinching, but inside, I feel like a jerk. A jerk for assuming that just because Ian makes a ton of money, looks like he does, flirts like he does, that he has no substance.
In some ways, though, knowing the truth makes it worse. After our spontaneous dinner date a week ago, I’d spent way too much time wondering what if.
What if I wasn’t investigating him?
What if he were innocent?
“Ms. Henley . . .” I break off, not sure what I want to say. Not sure of anything anymore.
She gives me a knowing look. “How about you call me Kate, I call you Lara, and you listen very carefully when I tell you Ian’s the last person who’d ever get ahead by cheating. This job is his entire identity—this world, the long hours, the fast pace, the parties, the money, all of it. It’s all he’s ever wanted, and I know he wouldn’t jeopardize it by taking a shortcut. Ever.”
“You care about him,” I say quietly.
Kate shrugs and stands, finishing her drink and tossing it in the trash. “Sure. But more important, I respect him. He’s one of the good ones.” She points a finger. “Put that in your weekly report.”
I feel strangely regretful after she leaves, like the room’s too quiet, my thoughts too loud. I find myself wishing that Kate could be right—that we could be friends after this is over.
An e-mail comes through from Steve, and I half-heartedly open it, figuring it’ll be yet another request for evidence I haven’t found, information that I’m not sure even exists.
The e-mail’s not what I expect.
L-
Did you check social media re: Bradley case?
-S
I set my drink aside and hit “Reply.”
Working on it. Most of my key players aren’t on social media. Been slow going.
His reply’s immediate.
Another tip just came through. Veronica Sperry.
“That’s great, boss. Don’t be cryptic or anything,” I mutter.
I Google her name, straightening a bit when her LinkedIn profile indicates she’s currently a technology consultant but she used to be a senior project manager at J-Conn.
Remembering Steve’s social media prompt, I look her up on Facebook, rolling my eyes a bit when I see that her account has zero privacy settings configured. I don’t get how people can leave every one of their personal photos open to any curious perv—or nosy SEC agent.
Then again, if I looked like Veronica Sperry, I might think differently. The woman’s gorgeous. Long red hair, wide blue eyes, and a teeny-tiny waist.
I click through her photos, which are mostly a collection of pouty selfies and carefully posed nights out with her girl squad.
Then I see it.
Veronica’s dressed to kill in a tight black dress at a glam party, judging from the gold balloons in the background and the glass of champagne in her hand. But it’s not the balloons or the champagne that interest me. It’s the man she’s wrapped around.
I glance at the date of the photo, and my stomach sinks.
The same man who told me last Friday that he didn’t know a single person from J-Conn had his tongue down the throat of Veronica Sperry the same month he sold his J-Conn stock.
Stunned, I slump back in my chair and take a sip of my coffee. But it no longer tastes so sweet.