20
LARA
Week 4: Monday Night
I sip my wine and debate the delivery options on my Seamless app. “Thai or Chinese, Thai or Chinese,” I muse to no one.
Regardless of what I end up with, I have every intention of ordering the greatest items. One of the downsides of living with a model is that there’s a lot of kale and lean protein in the house. When she does agree to order takeout, it’s usually with some God-awful special direction such as, “Don’t cook in oil, please.”
What, I ask you, is the point of delicious fried rice, if not for the oil part?
Tonight, Gabs is at her on-off-whatever boyfriend’s place, so I get to order whatever the heck I want.
I take another sip of wine, then wrinkle my nose. I’m not a wine snob, but even I can tell it’s awful. It was cheap to begin with, and the fact that it’s been open for days has done nothing for it.
I reluctantly dump it down the drain. I’d really wanted an adult beverage to distract me from the fact that it’s Monday and I haven’t heard from Ian since Friday night.
I shouldn’t care. I should be relieved.
Just like I should be relieved that I didn’t see him at Wolfe today. Instead I feel a little . . . blah. Like colors are just a little less bright when he’s not around.
There’s a knock at my door, and I let out a quiet groan, because there’s a 90 percent chance that it’s Mrs. Peonta from across the street, who forgets her keys daily. We have a spare, and I wouldn’t mind the interruption if she didn’t use every encounter as a chance to tell me that in her day, women had three babies by the time they were my age.
I look through the peephole, then rear back. It’s so not Mrs. Peonta.
To make sure I’m not hallucinating, I put my face back up to the door.
Nope, still there. I’m still looking at Ian Bradley standing in my hallway, a bottle of wine under one arm, takeout bag dangling from his fingers.
I put a hand over my pounding heart. All of this, just from seeing the guy through a peephole. When did I turn into that girl?
He rolls his eyes at my delay. “Open the door, Ms. McKenzie.”
“What are you doing here?” I call through the door.
“Trying to feed you,” he says, lifting the bag. “Also, to get in your pants,” he says loudly, clearly for the benefit of my neighbors. “Maybe find out if your curtains match your—”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” I say, jerking the door open and pulling him inside. “How old are you?”
“Old enough to know what I want, clever enough to know how to get it,” he says with a wink as he sets the bag and wine on my kitchen counter.
“Do you have any idea how much trouble we’d both be in if anyone knew that you were here?” I say. “The conflict of interest of us hanging out socially . . .”
I’ve been practicing this line all weekend, but I’ve forgotten the rest because Ian Bradley’s in my apartment, and for something that’s so unequivocally wrong, it feels . . .
Totally right.
Before I can register what’s happening, Ian’s opening all my kitchen drawers and rummaging around until he comes up with a corkscrew. “Wine? I know you ordered white at the restaurant, but this is a great red. Don’t make me drink alone, Lara.”
It’s my first name that does it. I’d never realized how the simple use of someone’s name can be used as foreplay, but ever since the night at the club, I’ve been thinking about the way my name rolls off Ian’s tongue. It feels like seduction at its most effective.
He lifts his eyebrows. Well?
“Okay,” I say slowly. “One glass of wine.”
“Perfect,” he says, opening the bottle.
“Ian. What are you doing here?”
He looks away, pouring us each a glass and handing me one. “We’ll get to that.” He takes a sip of the wine as he looks around, surveying my tiny apartment. “Nice.”
“Yeah, I’m sure it puts your penthouse to shame,” I say, looking at my home and seeing what he sees. Secondhand couch. TV perched on top of two wine crates Gabby nabbed from the liquor store trash. A kitchen table with an old issue of the Wall Street Journal rolled up beneath one of the legs so it doesn’t wobble.
“I don’t live in a penthouse,” Ian says matter-of-factly. “Not yet. But it’s on my forty-before-forty list.”
“Naturally. And how are your chances looking?” I ask.
He turns back to me, his smile slow and seductive as he meets my gaze. “Haven’t you heard? When I set my mind on something, I always get what I want.”
The way he looks at me makes it clear what he wants: me.
And suddenly I’m warm and a little breathless for reasons that have nothing to do with the wine.
I look away, and he lets me off the hook, giving his wineglass a quick swirl and taking a sniff in that way rich people seem to do instinctively.
“You sure you don’t want to drink that out of a sippy cup? Or wear a bib?” I ask.
He tilts his head and studies me. “I wondered if I was the only one thinking about that night at the club.”
“I’ve been thinking about it,” I admit. “And how it’s inappropriate for us to be spending time together in a personal capacity.”
“Agreed,” he surprises me by saying, rummaging around in the bag of takeout and coming up with a spring roll. He takes a bite and offers the other half to me. “Which is why I’m here in a professional capacity.”
I take the spring roll, telling myself it’s because I’m hungry, not because he’s the most gorgeous man alive, and if I don’t put my mouth on something, I’ll act like an idiot.
“How’d you even find my place?” I ask, trying to distract myself.
“You told me your address the other night when you got in the cab. Then I sweet-talked one of your neighbors outside, and she told me your unit. She also said to tell you your eggs are rotting.”
I make a grunting noise. Thanks, Mrs. Peonta.
“Okay, I’ll ask again,” I say, swallowing the spring roll (fried, delicious). “Why are you here?”
“I told you. It’s in a professional capacity.”
I lift my wineglass and give a pointed look at the takeout bag.
“Doesn’t the SEC have working dinners?”
“They do, it’s just . . .” I take a breath and try to center myself. “This doesn’t feel like one of those. I’m hyperaware that I’m in my yoga pants, that you’re not wearing a tie for the first time ever. That you brought me food, and there’s wine involved. That you’re in my home, and I have bras draped over my shower rack—”
He turns away, already marching toward the bathroom.
“Hey!” I say, realizing his plan. “I didn’t mean—”
I’m too late. He’s already stuck his head into the bathroom. “Very practical, Ms. McKenzie,” he says from inside. Then he turns around and comes back down the hall, rolling his eyes. “Good Lord, woman, you’re too young and hot for this frumpy shit. Haven’t you ever heard of lace?”
I rub my temple. “So you’ve seen my underwear. I hope it was satisfying, because it’s the only time you’re going to see them.”
“We’ll see,” he says, returning to the kitchen. “Grab a couple of plates. We can talk while we eat.”
“Ian.” I wait until he looks at me. “You really should leave. The case isn’t wrapped yet.”
His playful gaze turns serious. “I know. That’s why I’m here.”
“I can’t—”
“Just hear me out. Please. If you still want me to leave after we’re done eating, I’ll go.”
I open my mouth to protest, but he takes a step closer, his face earnest as he grabs my hands.
“Put yourself in my shoes. For one second, switch this around. Pretend that you’re the one being accused of breaking the law. All you know is that you didn’t do anything wrong, but it’s your word against some mystery person who’s lying. What do you do? Do you let someone ruin your life—either put you in jail or have the career that you love ripped out from under you—or would you do everything possible to try and stop it?”
He’s breathing hard, his blue eyes urgent and pleading. And just like Friday night when he spilled his drink, I see him not as a spoiled, womanizing, amoral playboy but as a man—a person.
One who might very well be innocent.
“Let’s work together on this, Lara, please. We’ll get answers faster that way.” He rests his forehead on mine, just for a moment, and it’s his vulnerability that breaks me.
“Okay,” I say quietly. “But Ian, if you stay, you can’t tell anyone. Definitely not your lawyer. Not even your besties.”
He pulls back, and one corner of his mouth lifts. “My besties?”
“Matt Cannon and Kennedy Dawson. Even Kate and Sabrina. No one can know.”
“Can I tell Matt and Kennedy you called them my besties? They’ll love it.”
“I’m serious, Ian.” I drop my gaze and give voice to my biggest fear. “I could lose my job.”
He squeezes my hands. “Lara, you can trust me.”
I risk lifting my gaze. It’s a mistake because he’s close—very close. And I’ve never wanted something as badly as I want to know if Ian’s as good a kisser as I think he is.
I pull out of his grasp and take a quick step back, clearing my throat and turning to get us plates.
“Hope you like Thai food,” he says, opening the rest of the cartons and acting as if nothing just happened. “I got a little of everything.”
“Wow, literally everything,” I say, hungrily taking in the multiple options. He takes both plates from me to bring to the table, and I grab a stack of paper napkins and the wine bottle.
He shrugs off his suit jacket, and we settle at the table, and though I’m braced for an intense wave of awkwardness, there’s none. Well, other than the fact that I’m very aware that his suit probably costs more than my monthly rent.
“So, what did you want to talk about?” I spear a piece of chicken and plop it into my mouth.
Ian takes a deep breath, and instead of eating his food, he picks up his wineglass and leans back in his chair. “Evidence.”
I pause midchew. “I really can’t say—”
“You don’t have any, do you?” he challenges.
My hand goes still in the process of shoveling in pad Thai, and the knot I’ve had in my stomach ever since my conversation with Steve tightens.
My boss has always been opinionated, but he’s also seemed fair. In fact, he’s the one who regularly reminds me that there are two sides to every story, and our job is to figure out which side is telling the truth.
The fact that Steve won’t even consider the possibility that Ian is telling the truth bothers me. A lot. And yet, conceding that to Ian is a direct violation of my job as the investigator.
I put down my fork, take a deep breath, and meet his eyes. “You keep saying you don’t have a connection to J-Conn, and the evidence backs you up on that, but it doesn’t change the fact that someone thinks otherwise.”
“But you don’t know who that someone is, do you?”
I shake my head, and even as I know I’m stepping over a dangerous line, I’m also realizing that this case isn’t black and white. There’s a definite murky-gray area, and Ian and I are right in the middle of it. Together.
“No, I don’t know,” I say quietly. My boss won’t tell me.
He rubs a hand down his face. “If we had the name of the source, this whole thing would be over,” he says. “It’s got to be someone with a vendetta against me.”
I’ve been starting to think the same thing, but I can’t tell Ian that. Not until I’ve looked at everything, until I’ve dotted every i, crossed every t. I’m close, but I’m not there yet.
Until then, I have to play by the rules.
“It’s also possible the source is someone who needs the SEC’s protection.”
Ian raises his eyebrows.
“It’s not uncommon,” I say. “The system does what it can to protect whistle-blowers. Their reputations, sometimes even their lives, are at stake the moment they come forward. It’s why we do the informal investigation first before escalating it to a formal one.”
Ian snorts. “What, like a white-collar version of witness protection?”
His tone is sarcastic, but his jaw draws open when I don’t say anything.
“Wait, really?” he asks. “They could be keeping a source confidential because they think he’s in danger?”
I shrug. “That’s how it’s supposed to work.”
He rolls his eyes. “Give me a fucking break. You really think this person is in danger? He’s lying, Lara. And the longer he stays in the shadows, the less time my lawyer and I have to refute his claims.”
“This isn’t a John Grisham movie, Ian.”
“Well, it’s not a fucking Disney movie, either. You said yourself you haven’t found any evidence, so why is there still a case?”
“Because I’m not done yet!” I shout. “I’m close. I haven’t found any evidence yet, but I wouldn’t respect myself, and you wouldn’t respect me, either, if I quit now.”
“Fine,” he snaps, draining his wine and standing up with ill-concealed impatience. “Keep the food. Enjoy the wine,” he says, shrugging his suit jacket back on.
“Ian, wait. I thought—”
“We’re either on the same side or we’re not, Ms. McKenzie. Either you think I’m innocent or you think I’m guilty of insider trading. You’ve had more than enough time to decide,” he says grimly, turning to leave.
“That’s not your call to make,” I say, standing and reaching out reflexively but then dropping my hand before I can touch his sleeve. “I do this for a living, and I’m telling you I’m not done. I haven’t been through all the archives yet; I still have a half dozen people to interview—”
“Forget all that!” he shouts, spinning back toward me and stepping so close my breath catches.
He closes his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath as though fighting for control. When he opens them again, his gaze is gentler but no less intense. He reaches out, touching my chin lightly so my face is tilted up to his.
I’m not sure what unsettles me more, the desperate urgency in his voice or the feel of his fingers against my face.
“Do you think I’m guilty?”
I sigh. “It’s not that easy—”
“Don’t answer as Ms. McKenzie. Answer as Lara. Do you think I’m guilty?”
I close my eyes to avoid his piercing gaze. The SEC investigator in me knows exactly what I should do—show him to the door and tell him I can’t discuss his case. But it’s not that simple. For the first time in my life, my usual cool objectivity has abandoned me, and in its place is something complicated and scary—something I want more than I’ve ever wanted anything, even the FBI . . .
“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.