Hot Asset (21 Wall Street #1)(18)

9

IAN

Week 2: Monday Morning

“My office. Now.”

I don’t bother waiting to see if Lara follows me—I know she will. She’s been panting after a meeting for days now and stalking me at lunch. She’ll follow.

My office is on the opposite corner of our floor from Kennedy’s. My long strides mean I beat her to it, but I stand by the door until she enters, slamming it shut and moving toward her until she’s backed up against it.

I don’t mean to. I’m not the sort of shithead who uses my title or build to intimidate people, but intimidating is not my angle here. I’m pissed.

Pissed that she followed me to lunch last Friday. Pissed that she’s interrogating my friends.

Pissed that of all the SEC investigators, I have to get one who makes my dick hard.

We’re both breathing heavily, and my gaze drops to her mouth just as she speaks.

“Step back, Mr. Bradley,” she says, her tone ice-cold as she glares up at me. “Now.”

I mutter a curse, slamming my hand on the door behind her head, then use it to push back away from her to a safe distance where I won’t want to press her against the wood and slide my hand beneath her skirt, seeing if her skin’s as smooth as it is in my fantasies.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” she says, coming farther into the office. Her tone is cool, her face impassive. Only the slight shake of her hand as she runs a palm over her ponytail belies that she’s as impacted by me as I am by her.

“Yup.”

“I had your company’s assurances that you’d cooperate, and I got the impression last week in the conference room when you brought me coffee that you were planning on doing exactly that. What changed?”

I realized I couldn’t be in the same room as you and not want to fuck you, that’s what changed.

I run my hands through my hair. “I was advised to get an attorney before speaking with you further.”

“Prudent,” she says, running a finger along the edge of the desk. “And did you?”

Much as I’m looking forward to seeing her face when she learns who my lawyer is, I decide to bide my time and ignore her question. “You get what you need harassing my friend?”

“I assume you mean Mr. Dawson. Yes, I had an illuminating interview with your colleague.”

I note her phrasing, chosen carefully to counter mine, and I roll my eyes.

“I’ve learned he’s fiercely loyal to you.” She gestures at the office. “And that you have incredibly different tastes in décor.”

I glance around my swanky office. It’s basically another version of my apartment—awesome view, sleek and modern furnishings. It’s exactly what people expect my office to look like. It’s also entirely replaceable. A tornado could wipe out the place, and I wouldn’t give a shit. That’s something I learned bouncing around from foster home to foster home—there’s no point in getting attached to things. Or people.

She nods, then points to a table behind my desk. “Is that real? The orchid?”

I glance over. “Yeah.” Her surprised look pisses me off again. “What?” I snap.

Lara blinks. “Nothing. You just don’t strike me as the type to have an orchid. They’re notoriously finicky and require a bit of coddling.”

“I can coddle.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I realize how ridiculous they sound and shrug. “It was a Christmas gift last year from Kate. She and Kennedy have a bet going over whether or not I can keep it alive an entire year.”

“Which way did she bet?”

“Let’s just say she checks on it about ten times a day and has forbidden Kennedy from doing anything to keep the damn thing from dying.”

She walks over and studies the flower. “Looks like you haven’t killed it. Yet.”

“You like orchids?” I ask, noting the wistful smile on her face.

Other than her boring taste in coffee, it’s one of the few personal details I’ve been able to glean from her, and I tuck away the fact. Why, I don’t know, other than some bizarre desire to know the woman hiding behind those professional walls.

“My late grandmother had quite a collection. One of the largest in the DC metro area.”

“You take over as the family orchid expert?”

Her smile disappears. “No. I tried, but . . . they take time I don’t have, attention I couldn’t give them. I learned the hard way it was the flowers or the job, and . . .”

She shrugs as if it’s no big deal, but I’d bet serious money it’s a bluff. She may think she’s okay giving 100 percent to the job, but it clearly eats at her.

She inhales, as though to gather herself, and motions to the chair by my desk. “May I? I have some questions regarding my case.”

Her crisp tone leaves me feeling like a fool. Here I am, musing about her love of flowers, and she’s viewing me as “her case.”

I give a curt nod and sit across from her, but before she launches into her questions, I fire off one of my own. “What the hell were you thinking, following me to lunch on Friday?”

If she’s taken aback by my candor, she doesn’t show it. “I’d hoped you were eating alone, and that I might get a moment of your time—since you’ve been avoiding me.” She gives me a pointed look.