Hot Asset (21 Wall Street #1)(47)

Too irritated to make myself a proper cocktail, I pick up a bottle of open red and pour myself a glass.

“What are you drinking?” I snap at Lara.

“Pinot Grigio. But Ian, you don’t have to—”

I’ve already pulled the bottle out of the ice bucket and am walking toward her. I top off her glass without looking at her. I can’t. Not yet. I’m too afraid she’ll see the real reason I’ve been avoiding her—the real reason I’m so damn mad at her.

Because I want her.

And my heart’s terrified she won’t want me back.

“I didn’t come here for wine,” Lara says softly.

I return the bottle to the bucket and pick up my glass of red. “No? What was the plan, then? Wait until everyone else drinks the wine in hopes they’d share some dirt on me?”

She sets her glass on the coffee table and crosses her arms. “You’re angry with me. Why?”

The question pisses me off, because . . . I’m not even really sure.

I’m mad, yes, but I don’t know if it’s at her anymore. Mostly, I’m mad at myself for wanting a woman who could think even for a moment that I could be a criminal. I want her more than I’ve ever wanted anything or anyone, but she’s still not sure if I belong in jail.

“Fine,” she snaps when I don’t answer. “Stew in silence. But I’m mad, too, Ian. You come to my apartment, you make me feel . . . and then you ignore that I exist—”

I spin around. “So you decide to crash a party at my house?”

“Kate invited me! It was the only chance I had, and I—”

“Well it’s a chance you should have passed up. I have nothing to say to you.”

Her eyes flicker with hurt, and I feel a stab of regret.

But before I can apologize, the hurt’s replaced with anger again and she stalks toward me.

“I wouldn’t have to chase you down after hours if you’d have made yourself available during the workday,” she says. “How many voice mails did I leave you? How many messages with Kate that you ignored? How many e-mails did I send?”

I push her hand out of the way and step closer. “Oh, so sorry that I didn’t clear my schedule to tell you for the nine hundredth time that I’m innocent when you had no intention of believing me.”

“Reverse the situations, Ian.”

I snort, and she shoves my shoulder.

“No, just shut up and listen. You played the imagine-if scenario the other night; now it’s my turn. Pretend that you’re an SEC agent, and your boss, whom you respect, who’s going to write you a letter of recommendation for your dream job, tells you there’s a reliable tip accusing an über-rich Wall Street investor of insider trading. As an SEC investigator for five-plus years, you know from experience that these tips are more often than not legit—you know that people really do cheat the system, and you get paid to find out the truth.

“What would you do, Ian? The entire reason you’re so upset about this is because you take pride in your work and are insulted that someone would accuse you of cheating. Well, isn’t that what you’ve been asking me to do? Just blindly take your word for it because you’re charming?”

My conscience takes her speech right in the balls. I hadn’t thought of it that way, and damn it, she’s right.

My pride, however . . . the part of me that wants her to believe in me—no, needs her to believe in me . . .

That guy’s the one who opens his mouth.

“If you’ve got something to say to me, you can leave a message with Kate.”

Her lips part in outraged shock, but she recovers quickly, sidestepping around me and putting a chair between us. “Fine. I’ll send an official memo to your office.”

She stalks toward the side table where the lone purse remaining is hers, the same ugly brown one she carries with her everywhere. She snatches it up, shoves the straps over her shoulder as she heads to the front door, and wrenches open the door. But instead of marching through it and slamming it shut, she whirls back toward me, eyes blue and blazing behind her glasses.

“You know, I thought I had it wrong. I thought that first day when you were a total dick on the sidewalk . . . I thought—hoped—that was a shield, an act you put on to play the Wall Street game and to hide the fact that beneath it all you’re actually a decent guy. But that wasn’t the act, was it? The act was the rest of the time when you played nice. The nice Ian’s the fake one.”

The accusation stings, but I can’t bring myself to deny it. I’m not sure who the real Ian is anymore. Not when she’s around.

“I already told you what I want,” I say quietly, turning away. “I want you to believe in me.”

“Why the hell do you think I’m here, Ian? Why do you think I’m trying to chase you down? You tell me to let you know when the woman and the SEC believe you’re innocent, but then you don’t even give me the fucking chance.”

I snap around, both at her temper and at the words themselves. “What?”

She lifts her chin. “I’ve finished my investigation. I wrapped it up yesterday and wrote my report this afternoon.”

I’m a fucking idiot.

I’ve been so damn pissed at her for continuing the investigation after that kiss that I used all my willpower the past three days to avoid anything to do with her—seeing her, talking to her, letting myself care about her and want her.