Hot Asset (21 Wall Street #1)(48)

“I’m recommending they close your case,” she says quietly. “No formal investigation.”

The roar in my ears dims to complete, eerie silence, and I’m certain that I’ve misheard her. “What?”

She looks me in the eyes and lifts her chin with confidence. “There’s no evidence indicating you got a tip about J-Conn. I said as much in my report. I turn it in tomorrow.”

I take a step closer. “What about your FBI recommendation letter? You don’t get it without the formal investigation, right?”

This time she doesn’t meet my eyes. “Not your problem, Ian.”

Lara steps into the hall and closes the door behind her, and for a long moment—too long a moment—I stand perfectly still, untouched wine in my hand.

Like hell is this the way it ends.

I set my glass on the counter and yank open the door. “Lara.”

She’s in the elevator lobby, pushing the button, but I know she can hear me.

“Damn it, McKenzie.” I walk toward her, cursing again when I hear the beep of the elevator arriving.

The doors open, and she steps in.

“Lara!” I run now, jamming my hand into the closing doors and hoping like hell my building’s elevator sensors are up to snuff.

The doors open again, and I hold them back, glaring at her where she stands calmly. “What?”

I punch the emergency stop on the elevator. “Where the hell are you going?”

Her eyes start to fill, and I feel like an ass. I am an ass.

She shakes her head, her chin trembling. “I can’t do this, Ian. I can’t play your games. I don’t know what to do when one day you want me, the next you’re angry with me and don’t.”

“I’ve never stopped wanting you,” I growl, putting my hands on her face and gently wiping away the twin tears that escaped her eyes. “Yes, I’m angry. You think I want to want you? You think I relish the fact that the woman who’s occupied my every thought for the past month is the SEC? You think I like that this is the first time I’ve ever felt this way, but you—”

Lara leans forward, setting her hands to my chest, and presses her mouth to mine.

I groan in gratification, pulling her closer.

I’ve kissed my fair share of women—more than my fair share. But I’ve never needed to kiss one like I do this woman, never felt like I’ll regret it the rest of my life if I don’t take my chance.

My fingers wind around her ponytail.

Mine.

I want this frustrating, complex woman as my own.

I nip her lip. Surrender.

She does with a soft gasp, and I take shameless advantage, my tongue teasingly flitting across her bottom lip before slipping inside to deepen the kiss.

Her kiss is shy at first. Her tongue tentative as it touches mine. Then her hands slide up from my wrists to tangle in my hair, and I lose all control.

With a groan, I press her back against the elevator wall. The elevator is still on emergency stop and continues to beep at us in outraged warning, but I ignore it. Hell, I barely register it. There’s only us, her hands in my hair, my hands on her back, her hips.

The kiss is breathless and frantic and so damn hot my fingers itch to slide beneath her skirt, find out if she’s wet and soft and wanting.

Lara breaks away with a gasp. “Ian.”

“Hmm.” My lips find her neck, loving her involuntary moan.

She pushes at my shoulder. “Wait. Stop.”

I go still and groan. “My two least favorite words.”

Lara lets out a little laugh as she wiggles away, straightening her glasses and looking as dazed as I feel.

I want to unravel her. I want to unravel with her. My hand reaches out again, but she steps farther away.

“I . . . I need to slow down, just a little,” she says, running a shaky hand over her long ponytail. “I haven’t turned in my report yet. Officially I’m still investigating you.”

I growl in frustration, even as I understand. Her job’s as important to her as mine is to me. I haven’t done a good job of supporting that, but I plan to start now.

“When do you turn it in?” I ask.

“I need to read it through once more, then I’ll send it to my boss tomorrow before noon.”

“Perfect. Have lunch with me after.”

She laughs. “Ian.”

“Too soon? I can do dinner instead. I’m nothing if not flexible,” I say, letting a smile spread across my face.

She bites her lip. “I don’t know if I can do this kind of thing as well as you do,” she says quietly. “Actually, I know I can’t.”

“What sort of thing?”

“Casual . . . sex. Flings.”

It wouldn’t be casual. It wouldn’t be a fling.

The thought catches me off guard, so jarring that I’m relieved I didn’t say it out loud.

“It’d just be dinner. Two people sharing a meal.” My tone is easy, careful not to betray just how unusual—and unfamiliar—the request is for me.

She may not do casual sex, but I don’t do this. I don’t ask women to dinner simply because I want to spend time with them. As Kate not so gently pointed out to me, I don’t date. Not as a means for anything other than getting laid.

But I want to date Lara. I want to make her laugh, and hear about her life, and figure out how to get her to that FBI dream job, and I want to be there when she gets the call.