Hard Sell (21 Wall Street #2)(5)

I don’t give a crap that Lorna Midler was banging her beefcake trainer. Goodness knows her husband was no saint.

But I care that she kept it from me.

I’ve dealt with all sorts of morally bankrupt people in my line of work. Cheaters. Adulterers. Even people who’ve got a toe on the other side of the law. It’s all part of the job, and it’s a job I like.

But I refuse to work with liars.

I mentally add Lorna to my blacklist—not that I’ll snub her when we inevitably run into each other socially. But we won’t be working together in the future.

“Ms. Cross, another cappuccino?” I glance up and smile at Javier, one of the regular servers.

“I’m at my caffeine quota for the day. How about one of your herbal teas? Surprise me on the flavor. Oh, and the paper, please.”

He nods, and I sit back in my chair, inhaling the fresh air with its hint of autumn as I take in the quiet SoHo foot traffic. The neighborhood boasts some of the city’s best shopping, but it’s too early in the day for the shops to be open, so the streets are quiet, the peacefulness interrupted only by New York’s ever-present taxi horns.

“Here we are, Ms. Cross,” Javier says, approaching with a pot of hot water and a floral china teacup. “No cream or sugar, correct?”

“Good memory,” I say as he pours steaming water into the cup.

He sets the pot on the table, as well as my newspaper and a croissant, which he delivers with a wink. “On the house.”

I don’t bother to tell him that on the house doesn’t mean the calories in the buttery confection won’t end up on my hips and that free food doesn’t often translate to fat-free.

Still, I nibble the corner of the pastry after he walks away, because it beats the hell out of the nonfat Greek yogurt I had earlier. I’ve been determined to teach myself to like the stuff, but so far, no luck. It may be healthy, but it’s also sour and doesn’t come close to beating a flaky croissant.

I wipe my buttery fingers on my napkin and pick up the Wall Street Journal. I get the WSJ and a half dozen other newspapers delivered to my apartment every morning, and I read them cover to cover. Staying informed is paramount to doing my job well. But my meeting with Lorna was early, and I didn’t have time to finish my usual reading.

I sip my tea as I scan the front page. A moderate earthquake in the Bay Area, no reported injuries, thank goodness. Politicians at an international peace summit. A tech giant with another record-breaking quarter . . .

I turn the page.

And nearly drop my teacup.

“Oh my God.” I lean closer to the paper, making sure it’s really him, but . . . of course it is.

Even without his name in the description, who else would be in the Wall Street Journal, straddled by a half-naked woman with her back to the camera?

Who else would have his hand on her waist, his grin as cocky as ever?

Who else, besides Matt Cannon, would ruin my appetite for a perfectly good croissant?

Because that’s what Matt Cannon does. He turns my otherwise in-control life upside down, every damn chance he gets.





3

MATT

Tuesday Morning, September 19

“So, what are you going to do?” Kennedy asks, his eyes watching the bar I’m benching as he spots me.

“Hell if I know,” I manage with gritted teeth as I push through the rep. “Know any rent-a-girlfriend services?”

“None that aren’t glorified escort services and won’t get you into more trouble.”

“I don’t think that’s even possible,” I say, finishing the last rep in my set and letting Kennedy guide the weight back to its resting place.

I sit up, and my other best friend, Ian, tosses me a towel, which I catch with one hand.

Ian sits on the bench opposite mine, hands clasped loosely between his knees. “I sent you a fucking million texts yesterday. You didn’t reply.”

I wipe my face with the towel. “Sorry. The Sams figured everyone would be buzzing, and that I’d be better working from home.”

“Everyone was buzzing,” Kennedy says. “Still doesn’t explain why you ignored us.”

“Not intentional,” I grumble. “I was on the phone all day doing damage control with clients, and then I turned off my phone last night to . . . I dunno. Think.”

What I don’t tell them is that those conversations were a hell of a lot rougher than I’d anticipated. My bosses weren’t exaggerating. This is bad. Really bad.

The guys nod without bugging me further, and I’m grateful for the understanding. Or at least the temporary free pass on not talking about it.

We all belong to the same gym, but it’s rare for us to be here at the same time. The guys did a decent job of playing innocent, but I sense they showed up at the same time because of me—for me.

The three of us started at Wolfe Investments at the same time, six years ago. Me as a twenty-two-year-old cocky brat with a brain for numbers, them a couple of years older, a little less whiz kid but no less cocky.

With as cutthroat as Wall Street is, it’s a wonder the three of us didn’t end up killing each other on our way to the top. Instead, we rose to the top together, competing, sure, but in a way that pushed each other to be better. No, the best. Because damn it, we are the best.

Guess the cockiness didn’t fade with age.