Hot Asset (21 Wall Street #1)(40)

“I don’t live in a penthouse,” Ian says matter-of-factly. “Not yet. But it’s on my forty-before-forty list.”

“Naturally. And how are your chances looking?” I ask.

He turns back to me, his smile slow and seductive as he meets my gaze. “Haven’t you heard? When I set my mind on something, I always get what I want.”

The way he looks at me makes it clear what he wants: me.

And suddenly I’m warm and a little breathless for reasons that have nothing to do with the wine.

I look away, and he lets me off the hook, giving his wineglass a quick swirl and taking a sniff in that way rich people seem to do instinctively.

“You sure you don’t want to drink that out of a sippy cup? Or wear a bib?” I ask.

He tilts his head and studies me. “I wondered if I was the only one thinking about that night at the club.”

“I’ve been thinking about it,” I admit. “And how it’s inappropriate for us to be spending time together in a personal capacity.”

“Agreed,” he surprises me by saying, rummaging around in the bag of takeout and coming up with a spring roll. He takes a bite and offers the other half to me. “Which is why I’m here in a professional capacity.”

I take the spring roll, telling myself it’s because I’m hungry, not because he’s the most gorgeous man alive, and if I don’t put my mouth on something, I’ll act like an idiot.

“How’d you even find my place?” I ask, trying to distract myself.

“You told me your address the other night when you got in the cab. Then I sweet-talked one of your neighbors outside, and she told me your unit. She also said to tell you your eggs are rotting.”

I make a grunting noise. Thanks, Mrs. Peonta.

“Okay, I’ll ask again,” I say, swallowing the spring roll (fried, delicious). “Why are you here?”

“I told you. It’s in a professional capacity.”

I lift my wineglass and give a pointed look at the takeout bag.

“Doesn’t the SEC have working dinners?”

“They do, it’s just . . .” I take a breath and try to center myself. “This doesn’t feel like one of those. I’m hyperaware that I’m in my yoga pants, that you’re not wearing a tie for the first time ever. That you brought me food, and there’s wine involved. That you’re in my home, and I have bras draped over my shower rack—”

He turns away, already marching toward the bathroom.

“Hey!” I say, realizing his plan. “I didn’t mean—”

I’m too late. He’s already stuck his head into the bathroom. “Very practical, Ms. McKenzie,” he says from inside. Then he turns around and comes back down the hall, rolling his eyes. “Good Lord, woman, you’re too young and hot for this frumpy shit. Haven’t you ever heard of lace?”

I rub my temple. “So you’ve seen my underwear. I hope it was satisfying, because it’s the only time you’re going to see them.”

“We’ll see,” he says, returning to the kitchen. “Grab a couple of plates. We can talk while we eat.”

“Ian.” I wait until he looks at me. “You really should leave. The case isn’t wrapped yet.”

His playful gaze turns serious. “I know. That’s why I’m here.”

“I can’t—”

“Just hear me out. Please. If you still want me to leave after we’re done eating, I’ll go.”

I open my mouth to protest, but he takes a step closer, his face earnest as he grabs my hands.

“Put yourself in my shoes. For one second, switch this around. Pretend that you’re the one being accused of breaking the law. All you know is that you didn’t do anything wrong, but it’s your word against some mystery person who’s lying. What do you do? Do you let someone ruin your life—either put you in jail or have the career that you love ripped out from under you—or would you do everything possible to try and stop it?”

He’s breathing hard, his blue eyes urgent and pleading. And just like Friday night when he spilled his drink, I see him not as a spoiled, womanizing, amoral playboy but as a man—a person.

One who might very well be innocent.

“Let’s work together on this, Lara, please. We’ll get answers faster that way.” He rests his forehead on mine, just for a moment, and it’s his vulnerability that breaks me.

“Okay,” I say quietly. “But Ian, if you stay, you can’t tell anyone. Definitely not your lawyer. Not even your besties.”

He pulls back, and one corner of his mouth lifts. “My besties?”

“Matt Cannon and Kennedy Dawson. Even Kate and Sabrina. No one can know.”

“Can I tell Matt and Kennedy you called them my besties? They’ll love it.”

“I’m serious, Ian.” I drop my gaze and give voice to my biggest fear. “I could lose my job.”

He squeezes my hands. “Lara, you can trust me.”

I risk lifting my gaze. It’s a mistake because he’s close—very close. And I’ve never wanted something as badly as I want to know if Ian’s as good a kisser as I think he is.

I pull out of his grasp and take a quick step back, clearing my throat and turning to get us plates.