Hot Asset (21 Wall Street #1)(42)

“Ian,” I whisper, pleading. “Please.” I don’t know what I’m asking for, but he does.

His hands gently cup my face, pulling me closer. The second his mouth closes over mine, I don’t give a damn about right and wrong, or black and white, or rules and protocols.

I only give a damn about him, about the way he makes me feel.

His lips own mine with complete possession, his kiss as confident as it is skilled. But it’s the need that undoes me piece by piece, the desperation in the way he holds me close . . .

He breaks the connection far too soon, breathing hard as his eyes lock on mine. “Figure it out,” he says roughly, stepping back. “And let me know when Ms. McKenzie catches up with Lara.”

“Ian, wait . . .”

But he doesn’t. He walks out the door without another word.

I touch my fingers to my swollen lips, dimly registering that my phone’s buzzing with an incoming message. I dive for it, hoping it’s him.

It’s not. In fact, come to think of it, he doesn’t even have my phone number.

The text message is from my dad. Good news. Rumor has it white collar is expanding head count. I MAY have found a way to mention that a letter of recommendation was coming through for my favorite daughter in the near future . . .

The message is accompanied by a winky-face emoji.

It’s a first from my dad, both the emoji and the show of support. I close my eyes and try to ward off the wave of frustration that I’m finally getting everything I want . . .

And yet I’m terrified that what I need just walked out my front door.





21

IAN

Week 4: Thursday Night

“Are my boobs lopsided? The new bra and tight dress don’t seem to be getting along. Ian?”

“Nope,” I say, refusing to look down at my friend’s cleavage. “I don’t know how many times I can say it—I refuse to analyze your breasts.”

Sabrina huffs and turns to Matt. “Fine. Cannon, since Ian’s a prude and I don’t know where Kate and Kennedy wandered off to, help me out.”

Matt has none of my hesitations and takes his time checking out Sabrina’s chest. “Right one’s kicked up a notch too high. Hope you didn’t pay your plastic surgeon too much.”

Sabrina doesn’t bother to get offended as she hands him her champagne flute to hold, turns away from the crowd, and adjusts her boobs. “These are one hundred percent me,” she informs Matt coolly. “I’d offer to let you find out for yourself, but oh wait . . . been there, done that. Snore.”

I wince and finish my drink. “No sharing whatever you two did to each other, remember?” I’ve been dodging the details for years. I’d like to keep it that way.

“But—”

“Nope,” I tell Sabrina. “My party, my rules.”

“It’s one hell of a party,” Matt says.

He’s right, I guess. There’s an unspoken rule on Wall Street that a party’s not a party unless it’s overly extravagant as hell. Caviar. Dom. Foie gras. Top-shelf everything.

Not that I take care of any of it personally. I have Kate make a couple of phone calls, and hours later, my apartment is transformed. The entire corner of my living room is a bar; I have one tuxedoed server to every five guests, the best caterers in New York.

It’s a scene I’ve become plenty familiar with over the years, but tonight it feels . . . different. Stale.

And yet necessary.

Whoever set me up to take the fall for an imaginary J-Conn connection is someone in my world. This world. Maybe not someone here tonight, but someone’s got to know something, and I’m determined to find it.

At least, that’s the plan.

Once Sabrina’s cleavage is restored to proper symmetry, she takes her champagne from Matt and turns to face the partygoers. “I’m loathe to agree with him, but this is an impressive turnout for the last-minute invite.”

It is. Just a few weeks ago, I’d have been thrilled, half-drunk with both booze and the power my name commands on an invitation. Now, however, nothing feels quite right. Just like at Pearl last week, I feel like I’m looking at someone else’s life, and not one I particularly envy.

I sigh, surveying the crowd. “I’m pretty sure half these people are just here for bragging rights. They want to be among the last to see my place before my new home is a jail cell.”

“You’re not going to prison,” Sabrina says, linking her arm with mine. “Isn’t that why we’re having this party? To pump Wall Street elite for info?”

Matt catches my eye over her head and gives me a nod. The party plan was half his idea, a last-ditch effort to figure out who the hell’s trying to torpedo me. I invited twenty-five guests—about as many as can fit comfortably in my small apartment. Instead, I’ve counted close to fifty. It’s a tight fit, even with a few spilling onto my balcony, others chatting it up in my office. Many of them I don’t even know. I’d only been half joking when I’d told Sabrina they were here to see me off before I serve two to five for insider trading.

Damn the SEC.

Damn Lara McKenzie and her process and her sweet little mouth.

And damn me for caring so much. For letting it get under my skin that she doesn’t believe in me. That whatever’s between us isn’t enough to override her rigid rules and her blind adherence to a system that clearly isn’t working.