Hot Asset (21 Wall Street #1)(29)

“Well, what did you mean?”

“I meant that I’m trying to figure out who’s framing me.”

I hear a knock at my open office door, spin around, and still in surprise when I see Lara standing there.

“Hey, Dave, I’ve gotta run.”

“Sure, sure. Think about the Phillies, though, ’kay?”

“Yeah, will do,” I lie, because I know I’ll never get him off the line otherwise. I stand and slide my phone back in my pocket. “Ms. McKenzie, what can I—”

“You lied to me,” she says, eyes blazing as she storms into my office, slamming the door behind her.

I blink, startled by her fury. I thought we were in a better place after our impromptu dinner last week, but apparently we’re right back where we started.

No, we’re worse than when we started, I realize as I take in the angry woman in front of me. She might have disdained me before, but whatever she’s feeling for me right now goes well beyond that.

Well, that’s just fucking fine by me, because I’m a little pissed, too. I’m tired of this woman acting like I’m shit on her shoe.

“I’ve never lied to you,” I say, crossing my arms as she stops on the other side of my desk and sets a laptop in front of me.

“Really,” she says scathingly, pointing at the screen.

I brace both hands on my desk, leaning down to see what’s got her in a snit.

I recognize myself in a photo taken at a generic party I don’t remember, making out with a woman . . . well, honestly, I don’t remember her, either.

I glance back up at Lara. “You’re pissed that I went to a party . . .” I glance back down at the screen to check the date. “Nearly a year ago?”

“I don’t give a crap about the party,” she says, pointing at the computer. “I care about the fact that you’re making out with Veronica Sperry.”

“Who?”

Her eyes narrow. “Playing dumb is beneath you.”

“Well, acting dumb is beneath you,” I say, rounding my desk to stand face-to-face with her. “I have no idea who the hell Veronica Sperry is and why you care.”

“Veronica Sperry,” she says in a barely restrained voice, “is a former J-Conn employee. You told me you didn’t know anyone from J-Conn.”

“I don’t!” I shout, getting in her face. “I’m sorry I don’t immediately recall the face of every woman I’ve kissed at a party, probably after a few drinks.” I gesture back at the computer. “And from the looks of it, she was kissing me.”

“Yeah, you look really victimized there, Mr. Bradley.”

“There it is,” I say, lifting a finger to point in her face. “You’re not pissed because this woman’s from J-Conn. You’re pissed because I’ve got my hands on her.”

Her mouth drops open. “Surely we’re not back to that. You know, this God’s gift to women act is getting really old.”

I step closer so she has to tilt her head back to meet my eyes. “Tell me you’re not a little bit jealous,” I taunt. “That you haven’t wondered what it would be like to be in her shoes.”

“You’re delusional.”

“And you’re reaching,” I snap back. “I barely remember the party. I barely remember the woman!”

“Wow. I’d heard you collect women like trophies. I didn’t realize you couldn’t be bothered to even remember them.”

Before I can think better of it, I reach out and pull her close. “I’ve never lied to you,” I repeat. “Now it’s your turn to tell me the truth. Why are you really pissed right now? Because you actually think this woman gave me the inside scoop on J-Conn? After fucking weeks of sniffing around without getting your precious evidence, I’d think you’d be thrilled. But you’re not, and you know why? It’s because this photo’s proof that while some of us have been enjoying our lives, you’ve been too busy coloring inside the lines, judging others, and living a lonely shell of one.”

Her mouth drops open, and I brace for a feisty retort, but instead, she blinks rapidly, almost as though she’s trying to keep tears at bay.

I could apologize—I should. But I’m still too pissed, still too frustrated by this woman and her determination to push all my buttons. And for what? For an SEC case that we both know is bullshit?

She pulls away from me and calmly shuts her laptop, pulling it to her chest. “I think we’re done here.”

“Like hell.” I reach out for her again, but she pulls her hand back.

“Don’t,” she says quietly. “Please don’t.”

I let her go, watching as she calmly leaves my office. I want her to slam the door. Hell, I probably deserve it. But she merely pulls it shut with a quiet click as she exits.

I stand still for a long time after she leaves, sucking in deep breaths in an effort to get my self-control back.

I’d accused her of being jealous, of wanting my hands on her, but the truth is, it’s me who wants her. Me who wants nothing more than to strip off that fussy jacket, shove up that prim skirt, and see if she’s as wet as I am hard from our sparring.

I swear and pull my phone out of my pocket, shooting off a message to Matt and Kennedy to make it a club night.