Hot Asset (21 Wall Street #1)(34)

I feel a surge of hope. “Does this mean you’re dropping the case?”

She hesitates, and I deflate slightly.

“Never mind,” I mutter.

“Mr. Bradley—”

To change the topic from whatever SEC line she’s going to feed me, I nod in the direction of the table she left, where a very hot woman is talking to a guy with dark hair. “Friends of yours?”

She glances over her shoulder, her eyes assessing. “Gabby. That’s her ex.”

“Ah. Explains the intense conversation,” I say, noting the way the woman’s hands move furiously as she talks. Even from across the room, everything about both of their body languages screams unfinished business.

“I’m giving them space. They dated for a year. She was crazy about him, and she thought he felt the same. But he got a job offer in Amsterdam and took it.”

“She didn’t go with?”

“She wasn’t asked.”

I study her for a moment, trying to assess her mood. She seems nervous, but I don’t think it’s me. In fact, I get the distinct sense that it’s the club that has her slightly on edge, and I’m the familiar safe space in the room.

The theory pleases me more than I care to admit.

“Drink?” I ask, gesturing at the bottles of vodka and mixers on the table.

“Oh, I shouldn’t.”

I reach for one of the clean glasses and pour a splash of Grey Goose into it, as well as a scoop of rapidly melting ice from the bucket. “Tonic? Soda?”

“Mr. Bradley—”

“Lara,” I interrupt, and her gaze collides with mine at my use of her first name. “Have a drink with me,” I say, my voice a little gruff.

She swallows before her gaze darts to her friend’s table. Finally, she sighs. “Tonic. Please.”

I fill the glass with the tonic and slide it toward her.

She looks up. “You’re not having one?”

“I only like Negronis.”

“Perhaps you should reconsider,” she says, her gaze dropping to my shirt. “To something clear.”

I pretend to think this over. “Valid point.”

I make myself a vodka tonic as well, not because I particularly want it but because I want her to feel more at ease.

I lift my glass in a toast. “To . . . Well, hell. I don’t know that I’ve got a damn thing in my life to toast to right now.”

“That’s not true,” she says softly, putting her glass down. “You’ve got great friends. Your assistant would die for you. You probably make more money in a month than I will in my lifetime.”

“And I’ve got the SEC just waiting to take it all away,” I say. Not to punish her but to remind her—to remind both of us—just how much power she has over my life.

“Mr. Bradley—” She takes a breath. “Ian. I’ve told you since the very beginning that if you’re guilty, I’ll find the evidence. But if you’re innocent, I’ll find that, too.”

I force a smile. “How long until you think you’ll drop that if?”

“You’re frustrated. I get that. It’s a long process, and there are a lot of moving parts. A lot of them out of my control.”

I frown. “Meaning?”

She sighs and rubs her fingers tiredly through her hair. “Meaning this case is wearing on me, too. And that’s all I can say about it.”

I stifle the urge to do what I usually do—push until I get my way.

It’s different with her, and I haven’t quite figured out how to navigate it—or if I even want to.

I gesture at her hair to change the topic. “You look different with your hair down. And without the glasses.”

I bite back the urge to tell her she looks hot as hell. I’ve had many dirty thoughts wondering what Lara McKenzie’s skin looks like, and though her top is modest for club standards, seeing her bare arms, shoulders, and a subtle amount of cleavage is enough for me to know it’s every bit as smooth as I’ve imagined. Her hair, too, begs for a man’s fingers to tangle in it, but . . .

I miss the glasses. Not just because they’re my favorite fantasy material these days but because they’re her. I’d bet anything the glasses are the real Lara, and this smoky-eyed, lip-gloss version is her way of trying to escape herself, just for a night.

Much like I am.

“Yeah, I’m a regular Clark Kent,” she mutters.

I sip my drink and try not to wince at the sweetness of the tonic. “Come again?”

“Metropolis? You know, Superman? Clark Kent’s glasses being his disguise?” She waves her hand. “Never mind. So, do you always buy bottles of vodka for yourself?”

“Nah, Kennedy and Matt were here earlier. Both bailed on me.”

“Why?”

“They got sick of my company.”

“Hmm.” Lara nods behind my shoulder. “There’s a group of women over there who I’m sure wouldn’t mind taking their place. Or mine.”

I don’t turn around. Don’t take my eyes off Lara. “I’m fine like this.”

“Sitting in a club with an SEC investigator?”

I shrug. “She’s a pain in the ass, but it turns out I find her a little compelling.”