Hot Asset (21 Wall Street #1)(4)

In person, he was even more . . .

Well, he was just . . . too much. Too tall. Too charming. Too masculine.

Also . . . gorgeous. Really, ridiculously, hurts your eyes gorgeous.

But he knows it.

Even if I hadn’t been investigating the guy, I’d have dodged his come-ons. Guys like that just aren’t for me. I don’t have the patience for their flash and dazzle and strutting, and they don’t have time for my rules and structure.

So is Ian Bradley hot? Yes. Very. But I don’t need hot. I’d settle for someone a little plain, even a little boring, just so long as he’s loyal. Someone who won’t mind when I geek out over a new case at work or spend my Saturdays updating my Quantico application.

Professional life first, personal after. It’s a little pact I’ve made with myself since acknowledging that apparently I’m incapable of juggling both.

I’m just starting toward the subway when I hear a masculine voice calling my name.

I turn to see Ian strolling out of Wolfe Investments’ revolving doors and heading right toward me. I press my lips together, not loving the jolt of surprise that has me freezing instead of continuing on my way.

I don’t like surprises.

Usually the people I’m investigating avoid me at all costs. The fact that he’s breaking the rules already does not bode well for the investigation proceeding predictably.

And I do like predictability.

Still, the job is the job, so I paste a professional smile on my face, even as I feel a strange flicker of awareness as he comes closer. The Ian Bradley in the office had been all quippy one-liners, superficial charm, and playboy confidence. This Ian, though . . . let’s just say I can understand why Ian Bradley and his crew at Wolfe Investments are nicknamed the Wolfes of Wall Street—they’re wicked hot, insanely rich, and known for getting exactly what they want, consequences be damned.

Ian slides on sunglasses, hiding eyes that I know are piercingly blue. He stops in front of me, a hair closer than he needs to be, but I refuse to step back.

God, he smells good. Manly and expensive. How annoying.

“Hello again,” I say, giving him my most generic “SEC smile.”

He doesn’t smile back, and even with his sunglasses on, I’m more certain than ever that I’m dealing with a very different version of Ian Bradley from the one I met ten minutes ago. A more dangerous version.

“Was it good for you?” he asks in a low voice.

My smile drops. “Excuse me?”

“Your little game back there.” He tilts his head toward the office. “You have fun?”

“Actually, yes,” I say, lifting my chin defiantly.

He steps closer, and I can feel the anger radiating off him. “Where the hell do you get off? Coming into my office, flirting—”

“Flirting?” I interrupt, furious. “I was just trying to get a stupid cup of coffee. You’re the one who was acting like freaking Don Juan.”

“I’m not going to apologize for asking an attractive woman to drinks,” he snaps.

I snort. “Save the flattery for someone who’s interested.”

He shakes his head. “You’ve got a sad-ass love life if you think that was flattery, Ms. McKenzie.”

His barb hits a little too close to home, but I swipe away the sting and step closer. “Let’s get one thing straight, Mr. Bradley, for both our sakes. You think you’re the first Wall Street suit who thinks I’ll be so dazzled by broad shoulders and a well-played line that I’ll lose my little female head and overlook any wrongdoing? You think you’re the first one to think this is a game to be won by slimy seduction?”

His mouth drops open. “What the—? Slimy seduction, my ass!”

I ignore his protest and continue with my tirade. “Being a woman in today’s world is no easy task, and being a woman in the SEC is that much harder. But here’s the part I want you to listen to very closely, Mr. Bradley. I love working for an agency that seeks justice. I love the fact that when it comes to the world of trades and stock and money, nobody’s above the law. Not freaking Martha Stewart and most definitely not you.”

He takes a small step back and crosses his arms. “Guilty until proven innocent, is that how this works?” I can’t see his eyes through the dark shades, but I feel the heat of his glare.

I open my mouth to retort, but his comment slices into my conscience like a very thin paper cut. He’s maybe a tiny bit right. In my experience, rumors of insider trading are almost always true, but that doesn’t mean I can assume.

“My job is to find out the truth,” I say through gritted teeth.

“And what if the truth isn’t what you want to hear?”

“Meaning?”

He leans toward me, and I can see the faintest bit of dark stubble against the decidedly stubborn set of his jawline.

Damn it, he really does smell good. What is that, sandalwood? Cedar? George Clooney’s sweat?

“Meaning, I think you want me to be guilty,” he says in a low rumble.

“Why would I want that?”

“You’ve got a hero complex,” he continues. “You’re determined to save the world, even if you have to invent your own villains.”

I scoff. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?”