Hot Asset (21 Wall Street #1)(3)

I feel my stomach drop out at her first text; my heart skips a beat at the second.

I look up at Kate, now understanding her horrified expression. “The SEC’s here?”

Holy hell.

The Securities and Exchange Commission is the government’s guard dog against financial crimes, only it’s not a badass, useful guard dog.

Nope, the SEC is like a yipping little lapdog, determined to bite ankles, shit all over the place, and ultimately be a huge pain in the ass while providing zero value to anyone other than their own plus-size egos.

“Who’re they after?” I ask.

But I already know. I’ve worked with Kate long enough to know that look on her face, to know when something’s wrong.

They’re after me.

And when the nameless blonde behind me takes a casual sip of her coffee, suddenly it hits me why Kate looks so horrified.

It’s not just because an SEC investigator is investigating me . . .

It’s because I was just flirting with one.

I slowly turn and face the woman, and she doesn’t even bother to hide her amusement as she tucks the folder under her arm and finally extends her hand to introduce herself.

I shake her hand out of habit, even as ice settles in the pit of my stomach as our eyes meet. Gone is my fantasy good-girl librarian, and in her place is my nightmare: the Securities and Exchange Commission.

She smiles wider at my obvious discomfort. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Bradley. I’m Lara McKenzie with the SEC. Here to inform you that you’re under investigation for insider trading.”





2

LARA

Week 1: Monday Afternoon

Is it wrong that I enjoyed that so much? Maybe.

Is it right that I want to celebrate it with champagne?

Not if I don’t drink alone.

I pull out my phone and text my best friend / roommate, who’s not only always up for champagne but whose freelance model schedule means there’s at least a fifty-fifty chance she’ll be free at three thirty on a Monday.

Happy Hour? I text, adding the champagne emoji for good measure.

Gabby responds immediately. Who is this, and how did you steal my best friend’s phone?

I roll my eyes. It’s me, Gab.

Prove it. How did we meet?

Tampon passed under the bathroom stall at Boca.

Super or Light?

Omg, do you want to grab drinks or not?

This is the first time you’ve EVER texted me for drinks before six p.m. You understand my skepticism.

She has a point. My job as an investigator for the Securities and Exchange Commission doesn’t exactly allow for flexible hours and day drinking.

In fact, if I’m being honest, it’s quite possibly the least sexy job on the planet. But I’m good at it, and it’s a necessary step on my path toward my endgame: The FBI.

The bureau runs in my blood—Dad’s an agent; Mom’s an agent.

I will be an agent, just as soon as I do my time with the SEC. See, while Dad’s National Security and Mom’s Science and Technology, neither “in” is particularly helpful for my own career aspirations.

I want to be part of the white-collar division. I want to deal with art theft and Ponzi schemes and those slick criminals who turn thousands of lives upside down every day without even a flicker of guilty conscience.

But . . . I want to earn my spot there—not have Mom or Dad put in a phone call. Doing my time at the SEC’s as good an “in” as any; I just need my big break to get Quantico’s attention.

And rumor has it around the SEC that the Ian Bradley case is going to be the one to change everything.

Hence the champagne.

Gabby and I agree to meet in thirty at a wine bar around the corner from our Lower East Side apartment.

I slide my phone back into my purse, still smiling at the unexpected perk of seeing Ian Bradley’s face when he learned the news. I know that sounds awful, relishing in someone else’s oh shit moment, but here’s the thing. These Wall Street guys . . . it’s like . . . I don’t even know how to explain.

It’s like they’re not real.

Objectively, of course I know they breathe oxygen and bleed red. (Although I wouldn’t be surprised if some of the ones I’ve met out on a Friday night bleed single-malt scotch.) They’re just so dang confident, so convinced that they live on a different plane from the rest of us.

Here’s an example:

Last week, Gabby went home with a broker who had a Steinway concert grand piano in the living room of his penthouse. When Gabby asked if he played, he said he’s never even touched the keys. His decorator had recommended the piano to him as a “statement piece.”

Sorry, but can we pause on that for a second?

There are people in my own city whose “statement pieces” cost more than double my annual income.

I get that it’s reverse snobbery, but come on.

Anyway.

I don’t officially kick off my investigation until later this week, but statistically speaking, Ian’s probably every bit as guilty of insider trading as our source claims. He’s one of the biggest names at one of the biggest firms. That means the most money. The most money means the most to lose . . . and the most to win. Which means the most temptation to cheat.

Ian’s also exactly what I’d expected. The guy’s pic on the company website is pretty much the stock photo equivalent of a Wall Street broker—expensive haircut, expensive teeth, expensive suit, expensive tan.