4
LARA
Week 1: Tuesday Afternoon
I’m pulling my stapler out of my box of office crap when there’s a knock at the conference room door.
I glance up, lifting my eyebrows in surprise when I see the last person I’d expect leaning against the doorway.
Ian Bradley’s dressed impeccably in a light-gray suit, black tie, and holding two frothy concoctions.
I click my stapler twice and study him, trying to figure out his game. His expression’s friendly, but his blue eyes are calculating.
“Mr. Bradley.”
“Ms. McKenzie.” He doesn’t move.
“Would you like to come in?”
He grins. “Would you like to put that stapler down?”
The moment I do, he steps forward and, setting one of the drinks on the table, slides it toward me with a flick of the wrist. If anyone else did this, the drink would tip and fall, but Ian simply makes the cup slide perfectly across the table and into my waiting hand.
I lift the Starbucks cup and study it. “Really. Bribery?”
“Barista made two by accident. I could just give it to Kate . . .”
“Ah yes, your assistant,” I say, leaping on the opening. I’d met Kate Henley yesterday, and my initial impression of the tiny brunette was that she has one of the best poker faces I’ve ever seen.
Verdict after trying to coax her into conversation today?
The best poker face I’ve ever seen.
“She said she’s worked for you for five years,” I say.
“Mm.” He walks toward the window, looks down. “They gave you the shitty conference room. The other ones have a better view.”
“I’m not here for the view.”
“No, you’re here because of J-Conn,” he says, turning back around.
It’s a predictable play, fishing for information. Granted, he’s right. I’m here for J-Conn, and I’m not all that surprised Wolfe’s already put that at the top of their guesses.
But this isn’t my first rodeo.
I say nothing, instead watching him carefully for any signs of nervousness, finding none.
“Why now?” he asks quietly. “Why are you guys after me for a company that crashed ten months ago?”
“Didn’t say that we were.” He’ll find out he’s right the second I start asking questions, but that’s not today. And I have no intention of playing this game on his terms.
Not that this is a game.
But the way he’s watching me, and the Starbucks drinks . . . I can tell he thinks it’s one.
“Okay, well let’s say hypothetically you’re here because of J-Conn,” Ian says smoothly. “What would have to happen to put me on your radar?”
I set the cup aside without taking a drink. “Hypothetically, we’d have a source,” I say, telling him nothing he doesn’t already know. “Who’s alleged you had insider knowledge of the company’s future.”
“Who’s the source?”
I snort. “Really. You bring me an overpriced coffee and think I’ll just tell all?”
“Or you could swoon,” he says with a wink.
This time I roll my eyes. “I’d heard you were a womanizer, but I confess, it’s really hard to picture.”
“Yeah?” He crosses his arms and sits on the edge of the conference room table. “What have you heard? Maybe that I’m good with my hands? That when I’m with a woman, I always make sure she gets her—”
I hold up a hand. “Stop.”
Good Lord, is it hot in here? I resist the urge to undo a button on my shirt.
He smirks, then glances down at my ignored beverage. “Try the drink, Ms. McKenzie.”
“No thanks,” I say briskly, trying to remind myself that I’m Lara McKenzie with the SEC, not Lara McKenzie, Ian Bradley groupie.
He gives an exasperated sigh as though I’m an uncooperative child and stands and walks toward me. He stops a couple of feet away and, without breaking eye contact, picks up the drink I’ve set aside and holds it out. “Try it.”
“This caveman approach might work on other women, but—”
“Oh, I get it,” he interrupts, starting to set aside the drink. “You’re scared. You like your lines straight, your colors black and white, your coffee boring. God forbid you try something new, live a little—”
Before I can stop myself, I reach out and snatch the drink. My fingers brush his, and the contact is so unexpectedly electric I nearly drop the damn thing.
He shifts slightly closer. Not to crowd, or to intimidate, or to kiss, but for a whisper-quiet seduction that’s about a million times more effective than his pickup lines so far.
For a hideous moment, I want to lean in to him, to brush my lips along his jaw, to . . .
Well, hell, I realize with a jolt. The man really may be as good as his reputation after all.
I can’t let him know it. I won’t.
I stay put, giving a little lean of my own, letting my eyes lock on his as I part my lips and put the green straw in my mouth. I take a sip of the cold, wonderfully sweet beverage, and I let out an mmm noise unlike anything I’ve ever made in my life.
His eyes flare with surprise, then desire, and for a long moment I have no idea who’s seducing whom, who’s one-upping the other . . .
Ian gives a slow smile that crinkles his eyes. “Well played, Ms. McKenzie.”
“Back at you, Mr. Bradley.” I take a victory sip—it really is delicious. “You want to play sexy cat and mouse, I can play right back, and I’ll win.”
I turn away to resume unpacking my box when I feel his fingers wrap around my wrist, gripping hard enough to get my attention but not enough to feel threatening. “You won’t win, Ms. McKenzie. I’ve worked too damn hard to be found guilty of something I didn’t do.”
He’s good and pissed, and I take advantage, going for a surprise attack. “I know you weren’t in bed with Arnold Maverick,” I say. “But it doesn’t mean you weren’t in contact with him.”
Ian blinks. “Who the fuck is Arnold Maverick?”
Damn it, he’s good. He’s either a really good liar or . . . honest.
“Arnold Maverick was the CIO of J-Conn,” I say.
He thinks for a moment, then drops my wrist as recognition settles. “He was in the news. The tech guru who committed suicide a couple of months ago. That’s who you think tipped me off about J-Conn?”
I take another sip of my drink and let my silence do the talking. I’ll neither confirm nor deny . . .
To my surprise, instead of getting pissed and defensive, he smiles, back to charming Ian once again. “Let me see if I’ve got this straight . . . an anonymous source, who you won’t identify, is claiming that I got an inside tip from a J-Conn executive who’s now dead and can’t confirm one way or the other. Makes for a convenient accusation, doesn’t it?”
“We’re just following protocol, Mr. Bradley.”
“Fantastic,” he mutters, rummaging through my office stuff. “You know, I’m not the only one with lines. Mine may be of the pickup variety, but they’re a hell of a lot better than your evasive SEC bullshit.”
“That wasn’t a line—”
“Sure it was,” he says, grabbing a pen and a pad of Post-its. He scribbles something, drops the pen back in the cup, and hands me the sticky pad.
I look down as he stands. “What is—”
“My e-mail account information—work and personal. Eat your heart out. I have nothing to hide.”
I’m still staring at the Post-it in surprise as he saunters away, turning back after he opens the conference room door.
“Oh, and Ms. McKenzie . . .”
I look up.
“My personal account has a few naughty pictures in there. Enjoy those.” He winks.
Damn it. I hate knowing that I probably will.