3
IAN
Week 1: Tuesday Morning
“Ian. Ready for you.”
Well, hell. That makes a first—the first time in my life I’ve ever hated hearing a woman tell me she’s ready for me.
I stand and manage a flirty wink for Carla, the longtime executive assistant of Wolfe’s CEOs. She winks back, but it does little to ease my nerves as I enter the office.
It’s not that I mind bosses. I don’t know that I even have trouble with authority—that’s more my friend Matt Cannon’s gig. And as far as my superior goes, the guy I report to’s a good one. Joe Schneider, my MD (managing director, not the doctor kind), is a hard-ass, but he’s decent. Granted, he’s the type of guy who nobody particularly likes at cocktail parties because he doesn’t know how to talk about anything other than work. But in the office, he commands respect, and that’s good enough for me.
However, today I’m not dealing with Joe. Or at least, not just Joe.
Today, I’m dealing with his bosses—the CEOs of the company.
I’ve met Sam and Sam Wolfe (yeah, you read that right) several times. The CEOs loves me. I’m their hottest asset. They know it, and I know it. Between holiday parties, fund-raisers, and quarterly meetings, I’ve gotten plenty of face time with the higher-ups.
This time, though, is entirely different. There’s no shooting the shit, no clap on the back, no grin at my arrival. I’m all too aware of their somber faces, the way the room smells like tension.
As it should. The SEC likes to give the illusion it’s got Wall Street by the balls, but Wolfe’s got a rep for steering clear of their attention—mostly. I hate like hell that I’m the one to put Wolfe on the SEC’s radar for the first time in years.
Most annoying of all, I don’t even know what the hell this is all about.
I had an opportunity to know—to go into this meeting armed with the details of the case and maybe even a strategy for how to fight it. All I had to do was play Lara McKenzie exactly right when I cornered her on the sidewalk yesterday.
I’d fucked up.
Not only had I not coaxed the details of the case from her, I’d forgotten to try. Those big eyes behind her glasses drove me fucking crazy. Add in the smart mouth, the tight skirt . . .
Someone clears his throat, and I nod at Joe as I sit across the table from the two Sams.
They’re a scary duo.
For starters, they’re married.
Just days after inheriting the CEO title from his dad, Samuel Wolfe Jr. married Samantha Barry, a partner at a competing firm, thus creating one of the world’s richest power couples.
There’s a long moment of silence, then Sam—female Sam—stands. “Screw this. Who wants a whiskey?”
Whiskey, gin, whatever. She could have offered me a damn white wine spritzer and I’d have said yes.
Joe and Samantha’s husband nod affirmatively for the drink as well. Apparently, I’m not the only one stressed out.
Four generous pours of bourbon later, they get right to it.
“We think they’re after J-Conn,” Samantha announces.
It takes me a second to register what they’re talking about, and it’s with equal parts irritation and surprise when I do.
J-Conn is a tech company that went tits up and screwed plenty of people out of plenty of money. But not me. Or my clients. I’d sold my J-Conn stock before it all went to hell and hadn’t gotten kicked in the balls like everyone else.
As you might imagine, there’d been a lot of “How the hell did you know?” thrown around, but nobody outright accused me of getting a tip.
Until now.
Joe shares my incredulity. “J-Conn? That was nearly a year ago. Why now?”
My mind is reeling.
I get why people had to ask about J-Conn back when it all went down—even Matt and Kennedy had gotten screwed by that one, and they’re the best in the business.
In that particular case, I was just . . . better.
After months of waiting with everyone else for J-Conn to make the rumored “groundbreaking” technology announcement, I’d called bullshit. I’d sold when everyone else was buying high.
Risky as hell, but it had been a risk that paid off.
Call it intuition, call it brains—hell, I’ll even take dumb luck. But what I won’t accept is cheating.
“We can only assume the SEC’s received new information,” Sam says, seeming to choose his words carefully without looking at me directly. “We don’t know for sure that it’s J-Conn, but there’ve been whispers about Ian and that deal for months.”
“Nothing but playground gossip,” I snap. “There’s no new information, because there’s no information to be had. I didn’t—”
Samantha quickly holds up her hand. “Stop right there.” She blows out a breath. “Ian, you’re one of our best, but if we were to have to testify . . .”
I close my eyes. Testify. This can’t be happening.
“I get it,” I say quietly. “Plausible deniability.”
We’re not there yet, but . . . we could be, and that’s what worries me.
The only silver lining in all this is that the SEC is still at the informal investigation stage. If they weren’t, Lara McKenzie would have come at me with a subpoena yesterday instead of a courtesy call. Informal is good, in that it means they don’t yet have the evidence they need to launch a full-blown case against me.
But it’s also bad, in that they don’t have to tell me the details of my “crime.”
I run my hand through my hair. “J-Conn?” I ask again. “Seriously?”
Samantha sighs and shrugs, managing to pack a wallop of disdain into the small gestures. If I had to describe Samantha Wolfe in a word, it’d be hard-ass. She’s fiftysomething, attractive in a polished, perfect-lipstick kind of way.
Her husband’s the opposite, at least in looks. He’s got a small stature, balding head, and, no matter how straight the tie, how expensive the suit, he always manages to have a slightly rumpled quality about him.
Sam clears his throat. “We’ll know for certain soon enough. You know how these things go. We’ll be able to tell what she’s after by the people she talks to and the questions she asks.”
“We’ve guaranteed Ms. McKenzie our full cooperation. I’m sure you’ll share our policy of cooperation,” Samantha continues with a pointed look at me.
The instructions are clear: Play nice.
I run my hands over my face. This fucking blows. Objectively, I know the SEC has a job to do. I understand their function; I can even respect it. But this feels like a goddamn witch hunt. That they can come in here, ask us to cooperate, all without telling us why or when or what . . .
I don’t want to play nice.
I want to fucking fight it.
Joe seems to read my thoughts. “We need to let this die before it’s a formal investigation, Ian. The best way to do that is to—”
“Roll over? Hand them whatever they want based on their unfounded accusations?” I don’t bother to disguise my anger.
They don’t bother to calm me down.
There’s a pregnant pause before anyone speaks again.
“Ian, you’ve been with us a long time,” Sam says, taking a sip of whiskey. “We like you. Consider you a friend.”
“Likewise,” I grunt with a nod.
“We’ve got the best attorneys in the business,” Samantha says. “They’re here to protect the company and everyone in it, and that includes you.”
I meet her gaze. “But?”
“But,” she says with the faintest smile, “if it comes down to you or the company . . .” She looks at her husband.
“You’ve got to get independent counsel, Ian. For your own sake,” Sam says.
It’s sound advice. No matter how good Wolfe’s lawyers are, if the SEC decides to pin something on me, the company would—and should—cut ties with me, thus severing access to their lawyers.
I need my own.
I’ve known this. I’ve known it since the second Lara McKenzie said the words “SEC” and “investigation.” But hearing it from my bosses makes it all the more real. And serious.
Joe thumps my shoulder in solidarity, but it’s an empty gesture. I’m not sure what grates more, the fact that none of them is confident I’m innocent or the fact that I’m getting the distinct sense they’ll hang me out to dry if I’m not.
Sam clears his throat, and I realize that the meeting’s over. They’ve done all they can do, said all they can say. They’ve also covered their own asses while giving me plenty of fair warning, which I guess I can appreciate.
I set my glass aside and stand. “Thanks for the time. And the whiskey.”
“We’d say the same thing to anyone in this situation,” Samantha says, standing and leaning across the table to shake my hand.
I nod, shake her hand, as well as Sam’s.
“I’ll stop by your office later,” Joe says, clearly intending to stay behind to talk with the Sams.
“Sure.”
“Ian.” I turn back again to Sam, female version. “We’ve given Ms. McKenzie full access to the west conference room on your floor for the course of her investigation. It’ll work in your favor to make her like you.”
I don’t bother to respond to that. It’s not until I get back to my office, door closed, that the anger sets in.
Not at either of the Sams. And not at Joe.
No, my anger has a very specific focus. A blonde, bespectacled, SEC kind of focus, and the lying asshole who set her after me in the first place.
I squeeze my eyes shut and try to ward off the panic. I can’t fight this when I don’t know who I’m fighting or why. I haven’t worked this hard, haven’t gotten this far, only to have it crumble around me because some blonde ballbuster has a liar whispering in her ear.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I have every intention of ignoring whomever it is, but then I see the name, and it’s the one person I’ve never been able to ignore.
I take a deep breath to calm my storming emotions, then answer. “Dave. Hey.”
“Hiya, boy.”
I smile. Nearly two decades have passed since Dave Coving took me in when I was fourteen, but I’ve only ever been “boy” to him.
“What’s up?” I ask, lowering to my chair and spinning to look at the rainy morning. Of course it’s raining. All we need is an ominous clap of thunder, and I’d be inside one of those damn Netflix dramas.
“TV broke.”
I rub my forehead. “Did something hit it?”
He coughs, the sound devolving into a nasty smoker’s hack that has me wincing. “A bottle,” he says when the cough settles.
I roll my eyes upward. Shocking. “Phillies lost, huh?”
“They’re in a slump,” he grumbles. “Lost my temper at a bad call.”
I stifle the sigh. Let’s just say this isn’t the first time Dave’s lost a battle against his temper, and a bottle of beer and the TV paid the price.
And I pay for the TV. All of them.
It’s the least I can do. The man put a roof over my head for four years, a place to come home to during Christmas break from college, and he never lost his temper with me, which is more than I can say about the six foster homes that came before him.
“I’ll get you a new one,” I say, already reaching for a pen to make a note of it.
“Thanks,” he says gruffly. “I don’t need big and fancy. A little cheap one’s fine.”
“Sure.” We both know he’ll have the biggest flat-screen that can fit into his mobile home delivered tomorrow.
“So, what’s new with you?” he asks.
I hesitate. To Dave’s credit, he usually only calls when he needs something, but he doesn’t hang up the second he gets it. He stays on the phone long enough to check in. And what the hell, I let myself pretend he actually cares.
Usually I give him the highlight reel, sticking to my latest job coup or describing my box seats at Citi Field. Today, though, I hear myself giving him the real deal.
“The SEC’s on my ass.”
“The Ess-EE-What?”
“SEC. It’s an acronym for . . . let’s just say they’re Wall Street’s watchdog.”
“What’dya do?”
“Wish I knew,” I say, rubbing a hand over my neck. “Supposedly I got an inside tip on a tech company a while back, but it’s news to me.”
Dave grunts. “So, nothing to worry about.”
“There is if whoever’s making shit up about this ‘inside tip’ is a better liar than I am truth teller.”
“Bullshit,” Dave says on another round of hacking. “Since when do you just grab your ankles when shit gets rough?”
I wince. “That’s nice, Dave. Very introspective.”
“Intro-what?”
“Never mind.” I pinch the bridge of my nose.
“Look,” Dave says with a hefty sigh. “I ain’t your family. I got no right to lecture you, but you’re the most stubborn son of a bitch I know. You always got everything you ever wanted—haven’t you?”
Almost. Almost everything.
I don’t say it, though. I’m not sure there’ll ever be a good time to tell Dave how much I used to long for him to adopt me.
I smile a little at the memory. I was a stupid kid, thinking if I just talked a good game and never gave up, I’d be worth the adoption hassle.
Nope.
It’s cool, though—we’ve got a good thing going on.
“Hello?” Dave asks grumpily.
“Yeah, still here.”
“So you gonna fight this SPT or what?”
I smile. “SEC. And yeah, I suspect she’d like nothing more than a good fight.”
“She?” Dave laughs, a cackling, dry sound. “Hell, boy, why didn’t you say so? There’s not a woman alive you couldn’t get to do exactly what you wanted and have her thinkin’ it was her idea. Doubt this one’s any different.”
“She is,” I mutter, spinning idly in my chair. “She fell for exactly none of my bullshit yesterday.”
“Yesterday. You gave up after one day? Ain’t like you. You’ve always been stubborn as a mule, digging your teeth in, lighting a fire under every bush . . .”
I go still at his words, letting them sink in. Mixed metaphors aside, Dave’s got a point.
Persistence is my ace in the hole—the thing that’s gotten me where I am today.
Have I gotten so lazy, so complacent, that I’m giving up after a single afternoon of getting shot down?
Fifteen years in the foster system couldn’t keep me down. Nor could the Yale legacies who’d tried to make it clear I didn’t belong.
I get what I want by fighting for it. And what I want right now?
Lara McKenzie on her knees, begging me to forgive her for the false accusation.
Well, okay, the on her knees part is a different fantasy entirely. One I’m not completely ready to give up on.
“Dave, you’re a damn genius.”
“Yeah, yeah. So when’ll the TV be here?”
I shake my head with a grin, telling him I’ll get right on it. I hang up, then grab my desk phone to call my assistant.
Kate picks up on the first ring. “How’d the meeting with the Sams go?”
“’Bout like you’d expect.”
“Did they—”
“I’ll fill you in on everything later,” I promise, interrupting. “But first, any chance I can talk you into getting Dave another TV by tomorrow?”
“Oh, jeez,” she says, and I hear the efficient clack of her keyboard. “What happened this time? His favorite hockey player get traded again?”
“It was a baseball emergency.”
“Mmm. Okay, I’m on it. What else can I do? I feel useless, and you know that’s not my jam.”
I smile. I do know. Kate Henley’s been my assistant for five years, and I’ve learned that her tiny, tidy package hides an administrative powerhouse.
“No, nothing yet . . .” I break off. “Actually, yes. If you were trying to sell someone on the magic of overpriced Starbucks beverages—”
“Mocha Frappuccino, extra whip, extra chocolate shavings,” she says without hesitation. “You can’t go wrong. Your Tuesday barista’s Karen, right?”
“Yeah, but I’ll take care of it.” This is one challenge I need to undertake on my own.
“But—”
“If you’re fishing for shit to do, Matt started trying to manage his own calendar again. He’s got himself triple booked for three o’clock but is too scared to tell you.”
“Are you freaking kidding me?” Kate makes a hissing noise. “Okay. I’m on it.”
Kate hangs up on me, as I knew she would, and I text Tuesday-barista Karen, ordering two mocha Frappuccinos.
Lara McKenzie thinks she saw Don Juan yesterday?
She hasn’t seen nothin’ yet.