Hard Sell (21 Wall Street #2)(34)

Matt knows it, too, his blue eyes narrowing just slightly. I nearly smile, because I bet in all of Matt’s carefully calculated scenarios of how his first meeting with his dream client would go, Jarod admiring his “girlfriend” wasn’t part of any of them.

“Ms. Cross. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” He extends a hand.

Finally? He knows me? “Likewise,” I say, placing his hand in mine and trying to hide that he’s caught me off guard.

“You’re a . . . consultant.” His eyes lock on mine as he says it. The confidence in his gaze makes me realize he knows full well what I do, but since people don’t go around dropping the word fixer in meetings like this, he’s stuck with my more generic title.

“I am.”

He nods. “I’m familiar with your work. I may actually be in the market for your services in the near future, but that’s for another time.”

I feel a little flutter of surprised pleasure that the Jarod Lanham might want to hire me, but I push it aside, remembering that I’m here for Matt.

Jarod glances at our table, the barely touched wine. “If you haven’t ordered yet, why don’t you join us?” He glances at The Sams. “If that’s okay with you.”

I press my lips together to hide a smile. Jarod Lanham could have told Sam and Samantha he was bringing a rabid raccoon to lunch, and they’d have put the animal at the head of the table with champagne and caviar.

“Absolutely,” Sam says. “Matt’s one of our best. I think you’ll enjoy talking with him. You know he joined us when he was twenty-two?”

Jarod runs a thumb along his jaw. “That so?”

Samantha turns to the hostess, who’s been standing a discreet distance away. “Is a table for five available?”

The woman’s eyes widen in panic. “Five? Well . . . I’ll have to check. We have a limited number of tables for larger parties, especially during the lunch hour, but, um—”

“Actually,” I interrupt. “This is sort of a lifesaver. I had a work issue come up, but I didn’t want to leave Matt to eat alone. If you all don’t mind my begging off, you’d just need a table for four.”

Samantha and the hostess practically sag in relief.

“I hope we’re not running you off,” Jarod says as I lift my purse from the back of my chair.

“Absolutely not. It’s just that duty calls.”

“Understood,” Jarod says quietly, clearly still assessing me.

I swear I hear Matt let out a faint snort, which reminds me why I’m here in the first place: damage control for Matt’s career.

I give Jarod a vague smile in response, and after nodding goodbye to The Sams, I move around the table to Matt. My touch on his upper arm is for the group’s benefit.

He leans down to kiss my cheek. “I’m sorry our lunch got cut short.”

I blink in surprise at the sincerity in his voice. We both know Jarod Lanham is the goal here, not me.

Don’t we?

“Call me later?” I ask him, letting my voice go soft and a little hopeful.

“Of course.” His eyes stay locked on mine.

Even when I turn away, I feel his gaze between my shoulder blades. And though I know it’s for Jarod’s benefit, a part of me wonders—hopes—if his possessiveness isn’t so much about saving his professional career as a broker as it is staking his claim. As a man.





15

MATT

Tuesday Evening, September 26

“Let me get this straight. You had lunch with Jarod Lanham. And our bosses. Lanham told you he’d be in touch. And you’re looking like someone kicked your puppy?”

I glare at Ian. “I don’t have a puppy.”

“Evading,” Kennedy chimes in, pointing at me accusingly. “Ian’s right. You’re not nearly as happy as you should be.”

“I don’t have Lanham’s business yet. You’ll have to excuse me if I’m not popping the champagne.”

The guys and I are at one of Wall Street’s favorite after-work watering holes, and I’m halfway through what I expect to be the first of many cocktails tonight. And not the celebratory kind.

My friends are right. I should be ecstatic that Jarod didn’t laugh me right out of the restaurant. That he knew about my Vegas notoriety and still seemed to entertain the idea of working with me.

Hell, the man ended our lunch meeting with the implication that I was on his short list of potential brokers.

“Lanham say why he’s in the market for someone new?” Ian asks. “He’s been with Herbert Bishop for a hundred years.”

“Precisely. Bishop’s practically a hundred years old. He’s retiring,” I answer.

“So why not stay with Morgan Stanley? Surely Bishop’s got a half dozen protégés itching to take over.”

“Probably. But the last thing I wanted to do was plant the seed that he should stay where he is. Besides, I got the sense the man thrives on change.”

Ian takes a sip of his Negroni, a bitter red gin cocktail he orders wherever he goes. “Wanna flip for him?”

I grin, knowing my friend’s joking. “You’ll have to pry his billions from my cold, dead fingers.”

“Jarod Fucking Lanham.” Kennedy shakes his head. “Unbelievable. You realize that you’re on the cusp of achieving everything you’ve ever wanted at twenty-eight. It’s hard not to hate you.”