Hard Rules (Dirty Money #1)(87)

“And you base this on what?”

“For one thing,” she says, “he’s very secretive and nervous, often going outside to make calls.”

“That could be personal.”

“No. Something isn’t right with him, Shane. Look. I’m smart and observant and this man is my boss. I wouldn’t make an accusation if I wasn’t truly concerned.”

“I need more than you being smart and observant to believe he’s guilty of some unknown misstep.”

“I know.” She reaches into her purse where it hangs at her hip, and removes a piece of paper. “That’s why I brought this.” She steps closer and flattens it on the counter. “I made copies of two versions of the same inventory report, side by side.”

“Two versions?”

“Right,” she confirms. “The left is the one I found on his desk. The right is the one that got uploaded into our database. They don’t match.”

“Maybe the first wasn’t final?” I ask, digging for an answer that doesn’t end with the Martina cartel.

“He doesn’t handle inventory,” she says.

“That doesn’t mean it didn’t change from the time it was on his desk and the time it was entered,” I argue.

She points to a particular line. “Right here. This indicates the sales for Ridel, an anti-inflammatory drug that’s in low demand because of side effects and better patient options. I know this because I spent some time working on a new version and it got sidelined for more urgent projects. Column one indicates that low demand, but in the second version of the report, twenty times as many units have been sold.”

“Has sales done a push on Ridel?”

“I can’t say for sure. That’s done through outside reps I have no exposure to, but considering the drug’s history, I find that hard to believe.” She hesitates and abandons the paper to focus on me. “That night—”

“Don’t do this. Not now. Not when you’ve just dropped a bombshell on me. Fuck.” I turn away and run my hand over my face, the magnitude of what she’s just told me starting to hit. Could Sub-Zero be packaged and labeled as this anti-inflammatory drug?

I face her and all of a sudden, she’s in front of me, one hand on my chest, scorching me through the material. I grab her wrist, and she steps into me, her legs pressed to mine. “I can help if you let me.”

This was always her goal, I realize, and the truth is, she’s exactly the kind of woman I should be f*cking. Devious. Calculated. Incapable of being ruined by me and my screwed-up family. She belongs here. Emily does not.





EMILY


My plan to leave Brandon Enterprises with something, anything, to help Shane win this blood war, gets easy when I return from running a million and one errands for his father and find the offices dark. Entering the lobby, I lock myself inside, drop my purse on my desk, and head straight for Brandon Senior’s office. Opening the doors, I flip on the light, and while I really don’t know what I’m looking for, one thing is certain. I promised Shane this would be my last day at Brandon Enterprises and that means this is my last chance to use my role in this company to help Shane in whatever way I can.

With that goal in mind, I cross the office, sit down behind the desk, and since Shane believes the hedge fund is being used to hide a secret that seems like a good place to start my investigation. Reaching for the drawer where I’ve seen him stick the file, I tug, but it doesn’t move. I try another drawer with the same result. Not ready to give up, I search the desk for a tool of some sort, and grab a paperclip, inserting it into the lock with zero success.

Frowning, I scour my brain for a solution, and a crazy idea sends me to my desk, where I snag my own key, and return to Brandon Senior’s desk and the locked drawer. Inhaling, I pray for luck, insert the key into the nemesis lock, and bingo, it turns. Pulling open the drawer, I snatch up the hedge-fund folder and one labeled MIKE ROGERS, who’s both a board member and a key player in the hedge fund. I then spend a few minutes making varied selections of other folders. My prizes in hand, I hurry to the large file room behind the reception desk, flip on the light and power up the copy machine to begin duplicating everything in the files.

I’ve just finished with the final documents, gathering all my paperwork, when I hear, “It’s late to be working alone, isn’t it?”

I jolt at the male voice, whirling around to find a dark-haired security guard I’ve never seen before, standing in the doorway. “What are you doing here?” I demand, his big body, and the empty office, hitting all of my many raw nerves.

“I saw the light on and thought something was amiss.”

“Just catching up on my work.”

“I see that,” he says, eying the stack of files I’ve created, and with what strikes me as more interest than an outsider should have.

“Thanks for checking on me,” I say, shutting the file I have open and scooping up the entire stack of files. “I’m fine. I’m going to leave soon.”

“I know you think you are,” he says, “but that’s when people make mistakes.”

My throat goes dry with what seems to be a hidden meaning. “Mistakes?”

“They let their guard down and forget to stay alert. Case in point, we’ve had a few strange reports in the building this week, which one wouldn’t expect with our level of security. You said you’re leaving soon. Why don’t you let me walk you downstairs?”